


Initiate Experimental Simulation: Skyrim

by Sinsyne



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Companions, Companions Questline (Elder Scrolls), Dark Brotherhood (Elder Scrolls) - Freeform, Dragons, Gen, Intrigue, Isekai, Modern Character in Skyrim, Ontological Uncertainty, Palaeography, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 85,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28151961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinsyne/pseuds/Sinsyne
Summary: Finding myself seconds away from the headman's ax was bad. Running from a dragon was worse. But by far the worst part was learning that my entire life had been a lie.Self-Insert where the world as we know it turns out to be a mere simulation as the MC is transported into the world of Skyrim.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	1. Initiate

My breath comes ragged, desperate gulps ripped from the air into my tortured lungs but nevertheless not easing my mounting discomfort. A dragon. An honest to god fucking dragon. What kind of Matrix bullshit is this, am I a fucking battery now?

“Hey!” Something pushes hard against my shoulder, the sudden sensation bringing my awareness back into the… well, whatever this is. I look up at a familiar and yet different figure. Ralof. His scowling face is uncomfortably close, our distance narrow enough for the air expelled from his flaring nostrils to tickle my skin as it finds the nook between my neck and rough-spun tunic, letting me see details on his visage no game would render. Grime-filled pores dotting his nose that must have recently been broken and reset improperly. Stray hairs growing north of his beard-line like lonesome trees at the edge of the forest. Tiny bloodshot veins breaking up the white of his intensely focused eyes. He probably didn’t sleep after they were captured and then carted through the night towards Helgen for their supposed execution. Was there perhaps a hint of jealousy in his iconic opening line?

“Get a grip Reinhardson, we have no time to panic.”

I guess that is my name now. Ragnar Reinhardson. Best thing I could come up with on the fly to not seem out of place in Skyrim; I can probably with some goodwill pass for a Nord with my light skin, blue eyes and slightly curled dark brown hair falling down to my shoulders. Biggest issue is I have little in upper body strength and couldn’t grow a proper beard to save my life. Surely the second part will be the larger obstacle in the trials ahead of me. But either way I can hardly use my real name here without raising eyebrows.

A long time ago in my teens when I first got into reading Norse mythology a friend called me Reinhardson after my father and I rather liked it. As for Ragnar, well, I know the name is used around here and at least I’ll still have an alliterative name like back home. Or in the main simulation.

It takes way too much effort to not dwell on the ontological ramifications of all this while my life is still in imminent danger. Presumably. But I still have to make sure of some bare essentials.

“Say Ralof, if a tree falls in the forest but no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”

I see his brow furrow and only now notice his hand is still on my shoulder, steadying me. “Riddles, now? Well I guess it would, after all the impact would still send birds flying. Or are animals supposed to be included in ‘no one’?”

I nod, satisfied, and stand up straight, upon which he lets his hand fall back down. It isn’t necessarily a good answer, but it is an answer that requires thought. These weren’t the words of some NPC with preprogrammed lines. Simulation or not, for now I’ll have to assume this Nord standing before me either has consciousness or an AI advanced enough to closely mimic it. For all I can tell right now he is as real or unreal as everyone else I have met in my life.

The latter idea is by far the more terrifying one.

I start to move and immediately wince. My landing on that one jump was a hard one and arcs of pain shoot up from my knee as a reminder. Having my hands tied certainly didn’t help. And that entire ordeal was before the ‘tutorial’ even properly started. It’s a good thing the very first lesson I learned in the bit of martial arts I did was how to take a fall.

I quickly take in my surroundings. A roundish chamber of irregular gray stone bricks, devoid of décor save for a sad little table and chair as well as some wall decorations in the form of tapestries and wildlife having fallen victim to taxidermy. Pale light falls down from a chandelier on the high ceiling with more spilling forth from the passages going left and right, each blocked by an iron-wrought lattice gate. Two Imperials would come from the left soon, with the key on the officer our only way forward. I have precious little time to prepare.

How does magic work in the Elder Scrolls setting? There are no arcane invocations, no complicated gestures accompanying spells. As I understand it, it is pretty much just you imposing your will on reality through magicka. It is easy not to think about how things actually work when you just need to press a key to throw a fireball or fill up your red health bar.

How _does_ healing actually function here? Does it just speed up what happens naturally? That would come with severe restrictions; if you take a sword through the gut, en-hastened natural healing might close the wound and remove toxins, but do nothing to reconnect severed intestines. Same for broken bones or lost body parts. Though I’m not sure healing is supposed to fix the latter; granted, I can’t recall ever seeing a cripple in Skyrim, but that might just as easily be because the programmers didn’t bother to make extra textures for it. Certainly the children here don’t all come in one size either.

Alternatively, healing could be some form of time-reversal, but that would only allow it to remove recent wounds. And actually open healed ones back up since a simple step back in the flow of time makes no intelligent distinction between a beneficial and a detrimental change. So perhaps healing magic adjusts the body to an ideal state that exists as an abstract. Is that Platonic idealism? Don’t think so, far as I remember Platonic ideas are unchanging, so probably not, as the abstract of my ideal, uninjured self still changes through aging, training, diet and the like.

Either way, let’s give it a try. I close my eyes, taking slow and regular breaths as I focus on the idea of healing, fixing, mending. From my wounded body, as it is, to my body, as it should be. With no little surprise on my part a moment later a familiar telltale sound confirms the spell actually manifested and I feel a soothing tingle on my knee as the damage is repaired.

Then a sudden, sharp pain in my mouth makes me stop dead in my tracks, most akin to confidently biting into a pitted olive that as it turns out very much isn’t.

Did… did the spell just try to push out my metal fillings when regrowing my damaged teeth? Holy fuckity fuck.

“So… You are a wizard then?” Ralof asks with a hint of apprehension in his voice. Of course. Nords and their distrust of magic.

I move my jaw left and right a couple times then cautiously put my teeth together, checking if everything is still in place. I clack them together, gently at first then with cautious vigor, finding nothing amiss. Looks like I stopped the spell in time before anything got dislodged.

“I’m quite the novice I’m afraid, though it should still prove useful to the both of us,” I say in answer to his question. I pause, my eyes challenging him to disagree, but he remains silent. “I’m probably better off with some old-fashioned cold steel in my hands, though I’m a novice with that as well.”

“Well then, speaking of…” He moves to the body of the Stormcloak soldier sprawled out close to the table and beckons me closer. In retrospect it was a bad idea to not strip the enemy soldiers of their gear, but I guess that was for the benefit of the show by making it obvious to the plentiful onlookers who was brought for their final judgment before the headsman. “Nothing fancy like steel but help yourself to his gear. Poor Gunjar won’t mind and we will need all the help we can get if we don’t want to meet him soon enough.”

Ah right. Iron, not steel, on the base gear. I pick up the ax, testing its weight. Forward-heavy as is to be expected, with a short leather-wrapped haft of dusky wood. It isn’t light but it certainly doesn’t have the rather outlandish weights featured on the game’s weaponry as I recall, so I guess when things were uplifted into a fully fleshed out simulation some things were adjusted to maintain internal consistency. Still, I probably lack the strength to be very effective with the ax, I surmise, but I should be able to swing it well enough to hurt unarmored flesh. Sharpened metal tends to be remarkably good at that even without too much skill or force behind it. Those ballistic gel and pig carcass tests in Deadliest Warrior and Forged in Fire were quite something. Let’s just hope I end up the tester and not the dummy.

I’m still trying to unfasten Gunjar’s armour that seems best described as a sleeveless tan gambeson over a layer of chain mail, along with an overcoat in Stormcloak blue to mark it as a uniform, when heavy footsteps herald the confirmation of my most recent fear – I have run out of time.

“It’s the Imperials! Take cover!” Ralof presses through clenched teeth and I quickly comply, the ax in my right hand the only gear I managed to salvage. I take position to the right of the gate while Ralof takes the left, both of us putting our backs against the wall to narrow our profile. As the uneven footsteps grow louder so does my heartbeat, hammering away in my chest so fast I feel like even a small wound would cause a geyser of blood to spill forth. I look at Ralof and raise two fingers whereupon he nods briskly. With the officer’s iron armour they are easy to tell apart, the female captain tapping her foot impatiently while the accompanying soldier works on the lock. After a breathless second stretching into eternity a metallic rattle reverberates through the stone as the gate retracts into the ground and the Imperials’ footsteps resume. This is the moment.

Ralof strikes first with an inarticulate battle cry, making the Imperials turn to their left an instant before I move in to strike as well. I eagerly seize the opening my companion gifted me and bring my weapon down in a wide diagonal swing at the exposed flesh between the soldier’s shoulder and bracers while his hand is still on the hilt of the sword at his hip. My edge alignment isn’t ideal but good enough and the ax comes to a jarring halt as I feel the blade hit bone. With a cry of pain and surprise my victim lets go of his still sheathed sword and falls to his knees with his arms in front of him as his left hand cradles the profusely bleeding wound.

With an actual frail human body instead of the abstraction of hit points, how the hell am I supposed to trade blows with a troll or even a fucking dragon?

I pull my weapon arm back again to quickly finish the job but intentional or not his fall left the legionnaire in a surprisingly good defensive position with his bent-over back to me, every part of his body in my reach covered in hardened leather. I try to swing for the narrow divide between the rim of his helmet and armour but my strike fails to avoid the sturdy hide and the ax’s head is stopped cold without reaching my vulnerable target. I have to think quickly; I can’t just flail at his hitbox until he falls over dead, even this light armour will make any of my attacks ineffective, at least with an ax, a stabbing weapon might fare better but this isn’t the time to think about that. I need to act now.

The spike on the back end of the ax, force concentrated on a much narrower point. I rotate the handle in my grip as the man regains his feet, non-dominant hand awkwardly fumbling at the sheathed sword with a backhand grip. My blow catches him in the forehead as he turns around. Even with the sturdy leather helmet halting my iron before it can go through his skull as well the impact makes him stumble. I draw back the ax and strike again, this time hitting the exposed flesh right above the collarbone. As I pull my weapon free a spurt of blood follows on its heels and the first man I ever killed desperately claws at his throat with a gurgling rasp, the sword hanging half from its sheath forgotten as he collapses to his knees. Now that I can see the helmet lacks a chin strap, I rip it from his head with my left and end his misery with my right by burying the spike in his temple. His eyes roll back and he crumbles to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

I make no attempt to free the ax from its bonen confines and instead complete the unfinished task of unsheathing the soldier’s sword while I put on the helmet. Probably closest to a gladius, no surprise with the Legion. I’d prefer a proper crossguard but it will do better than an ax. I look up at the still inconclusive duel as I grip the helmet’s noseguard between thumb and pointer to slightly adjust it into the right position. The Imperial officer has the advantage in reach and her weapon is able to stab which caused them to be locked in a careful dance with Ralof hovering outside her striking range and bearing several crimson marks from when he was punished in his attempts to close the distance. But the wounds don’t seem to slow him down and he keeps prowling like a crouched predator, waiting for her to overextend – or for me to make my move.

I shuffle counter-clockwise to get her sandwiched between the two of us when their stalemate is broken with the suddenness of a gunshot. She turns on her heels and comes charging at me, evidently intent on finishing the easier target first instead of chancing a two front war. I barely raise my sword in time to block her overhead swing and have to brace my left palm against the flat of my blade to stop the momentum of her strike, but she immediately rebounds and follows up with a slash to my stomach I can’t come close to parrying. Only my instinctive step back at her sudden assault saves me from a deeper wound but even as it is I wouldn’t trust in surviving this without healing magic or an emergency room in reasonably close proximity. I can feel the biting pain radiating from my parted flesh but I have no time to assess the damage as she keeps attacking relentlessly with contempt and fury etched into the features of her dark skin. Ralof finally catches up to her when my faltering defense lets her land a ringing blow to my head that surely would have split my skull open if not for the helmet, but even as it is my vision goes black for a second and only the timely intervention of my Stormcloak companion prevents her from dealing the finishing blow to my helpless self. Instead of chancing an ax strike she likely would have blocked with her armour he delivers a powerful snap kick at her hip and the raw force behind his boot sends her stumbling away. She goes into a shoulder roll to recover and comes up in a low guard, facing us with the wall at her back.

She is good. An actual trained soldier, likely in the Legion for years given her rank, and she has the advantage in armour to boot. It must have taken her perhaps five or six seconds to utterly dominate me and if not for the helmet I would be very much dead. Despite their suspicious lack in visual media – at least on named characters instead of quite literal faceless goons depending on helmet shape – they are the first piece of armour any warrior would wield, and this probably goes doubly so on a world with magic. Any other wound a spell could fix, likely even a sword right through the chest; I heard of a case where a guy had his heart pretty much obliterated by a point blank shotgun blast but still kept running for a hundred feet before he finally collapsed. It’s no instant death switch in spite of what you see on TV; cut off the blood flow to the brain and it’s got enough oxygen left to keep going something like twenty seconds before you pass out, same as with a rear naked choke clamping the carotid artery shut.

But getting your brain spilled on the floor? Then you’re just gone. You certainly won’t be the one casting healing spells on yourself and even if someone else did I doubt it would do any good. Perhaps in Elder Scrolls where souls are a real verifiable thing it might be different, but I won’t be the one to test that.

“Still with me Reinhardson?” Ralof asks while watching me out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah,” I hiss in a barely audible voice, already in the process of casting my spell. I notice the woman tense as she sees the white glow enveloping my empty left. She had likely hoped to have removed me as a serious threat and now has to contend with a warrior who seems her equal and one who can recover from any wound that isn’t instantly fatal. I can see the gears turning in her head, she would make her move soon, before I had enough time to fully recover.

There it is. She comes charging at Ralof, her left hand wrapped around the pommel of her sword to deliver a running thrust with all her mass behind it. Previously they had been in a stalemate but if she comes at him heedlessly he would only have time for a single counterstrike before she barrels into him and iron fastness covers all her vitals.

But her charge doesn’t come unexpected. Ralof, who had surreptitiously positioned himself close to the table, hooks his ax through the back of the chair and flings it into her path. The look of wide-eyed shock on the Imperial officer’s face only lasts the blink of an eye before she disappears into a tangle of limbs and shattered wood. Her cry of fury transcends into a wail of agony as Ralof cuts off her left arm at the elbow while pinning her other hand in place with his foot, a few vital centimeters away from her dropped sword.

“You may be Imperial scum, but you wanted to give us a quick death so I will do the same for you,” Ralof says dispassionately as he removes her helmet and hefts his ax to deliver the finishing blow.

He doesn’t get to as I move in and with a wordless cry thrust my sword down through her eye. With the blade far too wide for the socket the nasal bone between the eyes shatters with a sickening crack. She is dead instantly.

Funny thing is, when I first played the game I thought there is more of a story here. Why was she insistent on killing a stranger not on their list who for all they could tell just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? I expected her to hold an old grudge or perhaps be an agent of someone who already knew of my identity as the Dragonborn and saw an opportunity to remove this piece from the board without anyone ever being aware of it.

Turns out, there is no big secret here; she is just a stone-cold bitch. Hell, when I looked her up I learned she doesn’t even have a name in the game files.

“You alright Reinhardson?” Ralof asks cautiously, giving me a wary look. I pant heavily, hands braced on my knees as I feel close to collapsing. I’m dimly aware I didn’t get to fully heal my wound and quickly resume the process before the fading adrenaline lets the pain catch up to me.

“Yeah, just… goddamn, I hated that bitch.”

Ralof chuckles. “So did we all. Divines, probably her subordinates too.” He cocks his head and regards me appraisingly. “Your first one?”

“It was. Well, first two. Don’t worry, I can handle it.” Oddly enough, I can. It probably helps ease my mind that I’m still not entirely convinced these are real people the same way I am. Plus, this all being a simulation implies our existence is dependent on something external so who knows what happens with your consciousness when its artificial container is destroyed.

As for the blood, well, that has never been an issue for me. Growing up in a butcher shop run by my family does have its perks. Blood, guts, brain, the half-digested pulpy contents of a cow’s stomach, I’ve seen it all. Although in retrospect I do shiver when recalling that my pre-school self loved the soup my grandmother made from their brain.

Fun thing happened at a medieval faire once. Friend of ours had been missing for a while and after combing through the entire place we finally found him at the paramedics tent. Turns out when going to the toilet he hit his brow on a protruding piece of metal and upon seeing himself bleed in the mirror he fainted. He was a tall, muscular guy clad in chain shirt and furs who would have looked imposing enough to anyone intent on fighting him, and yet the most superficial wound made him fold like a house of cards.

I wonder what he would make of this sight. Headshots are always so clean in movies, a dot on the forehead and a spurt of blood out the back. You don’t see things like their eyeballs pushed forward grotesquely from the wave of pressure going through their brain or the death’s grimace on the Imperial officer’s face after I cut her number of eye-sockets in half. I loved this stuff on ballistic gel dummies, but on a ‘real’ human body it does make me feel queasy.

“You did well on your first time. Better than I did. Now come on, let’s get a handle on that armour.” Ralof claps me on the shoulder once my spell has run its course. I stop as soon as the stomach wound seems to be taken care of so as to not repeat that unpleasantness with my teeth, but things still leave me feeling drained. Must be the blood loss or stress.

We move back to Gunjar’s fallen form and Ralof kneels down to undo the straps of his armour. A deep rumble going through the chamber reminds us that there is very much still a fight raging outside. “Let me guess, wolves, bandits?”

“Bandits. Or perhaps just a pair of drifters. Father took us hunting and as it turned out we weren’t the only group trying to sneak up on the same deer. When we came face to face with bows drawn, everyone panicked and things escalated before anyone could say a word. It was stupid and unnecessary. I lost my brother that day.”

I take a moment to digest this story that certainly wasn’t part of the game. “Sorry to hear that Ralof.”

“It’s alright, it was a long time ago. And I will see Finnulf again some day, though I regret we parted so soon. Until a few minutes ago I was sure this would be the day.” He smiles ruefully and beckons me to raise my arms to then pull the cuirass over my chest. After a few tucks to get things into the right place he moves on to the straps.

I finally have a quiet minute to think about all of this. There seems to have been no particular trigger or warning preceding it, I was just painting some miniatures at home when suddenly a booming voice spoke inside my head **MAIN SIMULATION TO BE SUSPENDED FOR SUBJECT. INITIATE EXPERIMENTAL SIMULATION**. And… that was it. Everything turned into blue-white static along with a lurching shift that felt like falling only in every direction at once, and then I was in that familiar cart.

So, everything I know was just a simulation, data stored on some otherworldly computer equivalent. And if the powers that be didn’t explicitly announce so I would never have been the wiser. Why all of this, some form of Truman Show, a prison for transgressions I don’t remember, or am I perhaps just an AI myself? I chew on my lip as I contemplate this; whatever existence I may or may not have outside of this simulation, the old cogito ergo sum should still hold true. No matter what form the world outside takes, whether I have a true body or am just a bunch of ones and zeroes on a harddrive, I can be sure of my own existence. I have to be.

Hillary Putnam had said that we can be sure we are not just brains in a vat, a claim I right now most emphatically disagree with. The argument always felt iffy to me, it seemed just some trickery with reference, ‘brain in a vat’ having a different extension to someone inside and someone outside the simulation or something like that.

I take the leather bracers and boots from the Imperial as well, though the latter turn out to be far too large. It would do for walking, but on any more vigorous motion the soles slide back and forth under my feet. Figures that the first guy I kill would turn out to be Bigfoot. So much for one size fits all.

I also switch my helmet to the officer’s. Metal should offer far more protection than leather and it’s not like I have to pay any mind to a skill division between heavy and light armour. When I take off my current helmet I can see the long scar left by the captain’s sword as well as the hole punched by my ax. Judging from its size I must actually have left a decent head wound on the man but in the heat of battle it was hard for me to tell the difference.

The satchel bag worn diagonally over the officer’s shoulder contains the key, a handkerchief, and… a mix of gold, silver and copper coins? Huh. I guess it doesn’t make sense for currency to only come in one size. It certainly isn’t feasible to get a decent sword for the price of a dozen or so apples.

We get ready to move on but there is one more thing I need to try first. “Ralof, stand back for a moment please.” I stretch out my left hand and focus my mind on fire, flame, burn, visualizing the effect I had seen in the game. My efforts are rewarded by a gust of flame shooting forth from my palm and I quickly stop before draining more of my man… magicka.

I give the Stormcloak a wicked smile. “Every advantage we can get, right?”

“I certainly won’t complain as long as you don’t burn off my hair, I’m rather fond of it.” He grabs the second ax I left embedded in the Imperial soldier’s temple in his left hand and frees it with a quick twist. Dual-wielding? I don’t think he did that in the game. “If we come across multiple Imperials try to go for one without a shield, I don’t know how long you can keep that spell going but they could probably sit it out without major injury.”

“Sounds reasonable. Ready when you are buddy.” We quickly unlock the gate and Ralof takes the lead down a winding staircase deeper into the bowels of the keep. Light is getting sparser and the torches placed on the wall every few meters turn our shadows into hulking giants heralding our passing. A slowly settling cloud of dust hangs in the air and at the bottom of the stairs Ralof puts his hand on the wooden door on the left side of the hallway. “Looks like this is the only way forward… Hey, what’s wrong?”

I stare aghast at the recent devastation blocking our way forward, a cave-in forming a mound of broken stone and wood that puts no less fear in my heart than the lingering gaze of Alduin’s eyes burning into me.

It must have been that rumble some minutes ago. The ceiling is supposed to come down right as we approach this point, a convenient way to force the player on a linear path. Skyrim is full of such plot contrivances, important events just happen to transpire whenever you reach their location for the first time. The murder at the entrance of Markath, the execution in Solitude, the Companions fighting a giant and hundreds more like it. But in a living, breathing world things just happen when they happen, the heart of reality doesn’t stop beating while waiting for you to arrive.

There is a second cave-in later on to cut you off from the other Stormcloaks besides Ralof. I don’t think the game ever confirmed whether or not they made it out alive and whatever path they took would be utterly unfamiliar to me.

I have to get past that point before the collapse happens no matter what. And I’m already behind the timeline of the game.

“Just… let’s not waste any time and get out of here before the whole place falls down on our heads,” I say, still a bit shaken.

“That’s the plan. Probably best if we…” The door to our left suddenly opens, we come face to face with an iron-clad Imperial and everyone freezes in stunned silence. Ralof is the first to react and drives the soldier back into the room with a furious assault. I quickly shoot a burst of flame past his right side to block the path of the second one who was just about to flank my companion. I follow inside the room while I keep the spell going and adjust my aim upwards so I can judge the position of my target from his feet instead of trying to see through the churning blaze. He keeps backing up and I try to maintain our distance, but as soon as he reaches the wide pillar he will have reprieve from my magical assault. I feel the draining sensation left by my stomach wound intensifying, a weird feeling of deprivation I had never experienced before and yet could understand the meaning of. It is a bit like someone only knowing hunger experiencing thirst for the very first time or vice versa and it would be a confident guess to say this is the effect of using up your magicka.

I drop my spell as soon as the Imperial disappears behind the pillar and neglect to follow up into the narrower quarters. He pokes his head out but immediately disappears again when I start my fiery assault anew, leaving us locked in a stalemate. Blisters marred his reddened skin and his right eyebrow had disappeared; he must have covered only part of his face in time. But it wasn’t enough to set the thick wool of his clothes on fire.

Ralof, to my relief, has won his duel and quickly cuts off the remaining Imperial, who seems to want to make a break for the other exit out of the storeroom. A strike with his left is frantically parried, then two quick chops with his right and it is over.

At least I can claim I softened him up a bit.

“Looks like a storeroom. See if you…” Ralof trails off while I go through the shelves to hastily grab any potions and shove them into my bag. I ignore the wine; while gaming I would take it for the good gold to weight ratio, but right now storage space is a more stringent limitation and I wouldn’t trust a big glass bottle to go through the coming fights unbroken anyway.

I move on to the barrels looking for the potion stack. Most of it is filled with grain so I can reach them without having to throw the whole thing over. Task done I move on to the door where Ralof raises an eyebrow at me. Or tries to, it seems he doesn’t have much practice with the gesture and the second one twitches upwards as well.

“What? We said we need to hurry.”

“We did. But if you keep scurrying around like that you’ll just run out of breath. Take it easy, someone who goes into a fight already exhausted is sure to lose.”

I have no good retort to that so I just nod silently to acknowledge his point. Another path going down leads us ever closer to the approaching deadline ahead of us. Arguing voices rise up from what I know to be the torture chamber beneath us, one male and one female. We slow our step in silent agreement and stick close to the damp wall. The musty air tickles the inside of my nose, seeming to get worse with every step down the stairs though it is probably just my awareness of it intensifying. There is probably mold growing down here far removed from fresh air and the presence of jail cells and the various fluids spilled during ‘interrogation’ probably don’t help either. Ralof has reached the bottom and steals a peek around the corner ready to jump into battle, but then his tense muscles relax. “Hjilga? Glad you made it too.”

It seems with our late arrival the fight here had already concluded. I follow down into the room where I find a blond Stormcloak woman, presumably Hjilga, kneeling down in front of an iron cage to fiddle with its lock while another Stormcloak peers over her shoulder with a red bandage on his left arm that likely was part of an Imperial uniform before. Judging from how thick it is with blood it must have been a deep wound. The third of their group fared worse though and lies in a lifeless heap with a black scorch mark on his chest.

I’m a bit surprised they won their fight without our help, but then again the two torturers likely were only used to victims unable to fight back. The pools of blood spread around their mangled bodies slant towards the path onwards which makes me assume the floor is slightly tilted. Judging from the excessive number of cuts and bruises it was probably more butchery than a fight. A torturer can’t expect quarter from the friends of their victims. I’ve read some accounts of what soldiers in the First World War did to people captured carrying a serrated knife or bayonet. Compared to that the Imperials got off lightly.

The woman turns her head, but upon recognizing my companion immediately returns to her task. “Ralof! Good to see you. Any chance you or your friend are good with locks?”

I shake my head when he looks at me and Ralof answers in the negative. “Afraid not. Was Jarl Ulfric with you?”

“No.” The broad-shouldered Nord narrows his eyes as he scrutinizes me. “And who is that anyway? He’s not one of us.” His right hand is wrapped around the handle of a massive two-handed hammer with its head resting on the ground. He seems an older warrior, a large bald spot reducing his hair to a half-circle of gray-specked brown, but the thick cords of muscle around his neck are something I’d expect to see on a weightlifter or pro-wrestler in their prime.

“His name is Ragnar Reinhardson,” Ralof answers in my place. “Shared a cart with Jarl Ulfric and me. And you are?”

“Borg. Don’t think we’ve met before. But I’m fine with anyone who wants to bash some Imperial skulls in.”

“Don’t you worry, I didn’t get this off a shelf,” I chime in while tapping a finger against the officer’s helmet. “Though most credit goes to Ralof.”

“You certainly could have ended up with a worse fighter,” the woman says with a smirk. “Seems you were placed with some illustrious company. Ralof and Jarl Ulfric?”

“Last one in the cart was that horse thief who got shot in the back while running away instead of facing the music,” I say with a teasing smile.

“Oh… Nevermind then.”

Borg seems to be getting impatient much to my relief; I certainly have the least authority here to urge people to move on. “Let’s keep moving, you’re not gonna get that damn thing open.”

“I would already have it open if you didn’t bend the lock with your hammer!”

“And I would have it open too if you let me hit it more than once!”

I ignore their bickering and try to secure anything of value they didn’t already take. There is a knapsack on a small round table I quickly take as it is more spacious and easier to carry than my current bag. Conveniently placed Book of the Dragonborn, still there luckily. A secluded section divided from the rest of the room by iron bars has a round shield I take too. I decide to let my sword rest in its sheath and instead go for a spell plus shield combination for now.

“How long have you been working on that Hjilga?” Ralof asks.

“Perhaps a minute before you got here.” Borg coughs loudly. “Alright, fine, maybe two or three.”

“If you don’t have it open yet I don’t think you will soon and we have little time to spare,” Ralof reasons with her.

“That corpse in there is a mage and his robes are enchanted, that stuff is worth good money.”

I very much agree as I know her assessment to be factually correct, but it isn’t worth my life. I reach through the iron bars of the cage and rip away the mage’s hood. Hjilga gazes at me with a dumbstruck expression, mouthing a silent “Oh.”

“And the robes?” Borg asks.

“Leave them. Ralof is right, time is more precious right now than money. But if you can get anything else out through the bars go for it.”

The Stormcloak eagerly complies and scoops up some coins and a potion before patting down the body for any valuables. I guess even as an outsider I can get them to listen by appealing to what they already desire anyway. Meanwhile I go for the spell tome but find it too wide to get through the gaps in the cage. With some reluctance I tear away the cover which allows me to roll the pages and retrieve the disrobed book.

When I come back up I see Ralof holding out another pair of leather boots. “Try these, should be more your size.” I take them and lift my right foot to put them sole to sole. Looks like these will indeed be a better fit so I quickly switch out my footwear. I’m mindful of every wasted second but if the ceiling does come crashing down it would seem very advisable to be able to run.

Borg and I finish our work at about the same time; he seems to have made an attempt to get the robe as well but from the way the corpse’s right arm reaches stiffly into the air he gave up when the evident rigor mortis made the task insurmountable. “Hey Borg.” I hold out one of the conveniently colour-coded potions, a shining ruby red for healing. “That wound looks nasty, better patch yourself up before we run into more Imperials.”

He takes the potion with a frown and uncorks it to swallow the contents in a single gulp. “Thanks Ragnar, I appreciate it.” Before I can say anything else he tosses the empty vial over his shoulder where it shatters into glittering shards upon hitting the ground.

I’m slightly taken aback when I realize this is the first time I am addressed by ‘my’ new name. Ralof seems to be in the habit of being a last-namer. Actually now I think about it all Nords I recall from the game only have a first name, with last names being reserved for titles or prominent clans like Gray-Mane or Battle-Born.

God damn it, did I already irrevocably screw things up when choosing my name?

We keep delving ever deeper through the narrow corridors past several dungeon cells and cages, many of them containing a corpse or desiccated skeleton watching us in silent admonition for their suffering. In the final room one side of the brick wall is broken up by a gaping hole connecting into a more spacious natural cave. The hungry cavern swallows us but I can still feel stairs of worked stone beneath my feet. Instead of tunneling a fresh path this pre-existing corridor was incorporated into the submerged veins of the keep and several places show the mark of man’s handiwork; a supporting pillar rising up to the high ceiling here, a coal-fed brazier lighting our way there. Moving into and out of its fleeting aura of heat makes me acutely aware of the fresh breeze but I can also feel the stale air clearing up. There must be some natural circulation down here and the soft babbling of the water ahead betrays further motion as well. But the peaceful brook would soon be stained red.

There’s no point in warning them; my Stormcloak companions are already expecting and ready for battle without any interference on my part and I’m not entirely sure of the number of Imperials here in the game anyway. But I know we are going into a disadvantageous position, a large roughly square cavern with a raised walkway going around three of its sides giving their archers an easy shot into our flank while the short drop between us protects them from retaliation. I decide that handling this is the best contribution I can make to our success.

The whistle of arrows starts as soon as we enter the cave; whether or not the Imperials ever learned what the rumble of battle above was about, they were on guard and ready for our arrival. Ralof and Borg take up the front but the short stone bridge is so narrow only a single person can pass at a time. Hjilga abandons her shield to instead switch to a bow and the archers on the other side immediately focus their fire on her while I remain ignored as I try to cover most of my body behind my shield, its rim held right beneath the line of my eyes. I take some quick steps down onto the natural floor beneath the walkway and raise my right hand high to release my spell. I don’t know why in the game lamp oil is spilled at the feet of the archers, or why it is so unreasonably combustible for that matter, but I have no intention of complaining. As my flame laps at their feet the shiny purplish liquid catches fire immediately and engulfs the pair of archers in a gruesome display of surprise giving rise to panic and agony. One of them throws himself to the ground while the other seeks refuge in the stream below. I notice his intention too late to fully dodge and his falling body clips my shoulder, throwing both of us to the ground. I give the Imperial soldier no time to recover and grab his head and right arm in a Half Nelson while the pressure exerted with my shield secures his left arm. Without mercy I push the archer’s face down into the water he had sought for salvation and he struggles desperately to throw me off, but this hold won’t end with a tap-out. The cold stream soaks through my pants and licks at my skin as I wrap my legs around his to make the hold tighter. I am uncomfortably aware of my vulnerability; grappling, while effective, is horribly unsuited to a fight with multiple opponents. I just have to hope what I did was sufficient for the Stormcloaks to handle the rest quickly enough and if the second archer comes back up I can only pray for the fastness of my armour.

His struggles cease in time with the din of battle and I hear unhurried footsteps approach my position. Looking up my vision is filled by fur boots instead of leather. The Stormcloaks have won.

“You done?” Ralof asks me.

“Yeah.” The Imperial might only be unconscious right now; after a moment of consideration I pull his head from the water and let his cheek rest on the smooth stone. If he pulls through we’ll be long gone before he poses a threat again. Ralof goes through the archer’s bag and I see Hjilga do the same with one of the other bodies. “Borg?”

“Dead.” His thumb points me where the mighty warrior’s body had fallen off the narrow bridge. I see an arrow sticking out of his thigh but can’t make out the wound that ended his life. I didn’t even have time for a ‘resistance is futile’ pun. “Once we’ve looted the bodies we move on. Looks like the dungeon connected into a natural cave system, if we follow the water we should find an exit. This stream probably feeds into the White River, if I’m right we should leave the mountain to the north of Helgen.”

His sense of direction is on point. I just have to make sure we actually get there. A mere dozen meters separate us from the deadline and the fateful collapse might happen at any moment. “We best not tarry too long, we only faced manageable numbers so far but that can change quickly…”

“Calm down Ragnar.” Hjilga had moved on to looting the archer on top of the walkway. I notice a pair of arrows sticking out of his chest and stomach so it seems he did get back up after I set him on fire. “Come up here, see that raised wooden bridge up ahead? That likely marks the end of the sections the Imperials had manned in this cave. We should be safe from here on out, at least when it comes to Imperial soldiers.”

I know she is right, and I have to admit her observation with the bridge is quite astute. While playing it had never occurred to me this was to separate the outliers of the keep’s underbelly from the rest of the cave. But I also know something she doesn’t and there’s no way to tell her.

With arduous leisure Ralof finally catches up to us at the exit while Hjilga goes ahead to check the mechanism of the raised bridge. That’s when a shiver goes through the cave accompanied by a deep rumble I feel reverberating in my very bones. The dread I have been anxiously anticipating is here.

“Run!” I try to make it through but I’m suddenly torn back and land flat on the ground. An avalanche of stone comes crashing down with a deafening roar and my vision is obscured by the thick cloud of dust washing over me.

“Are you stark raving mad!” It is Ralof, lying on top of me. His outrage is interrupted by a coughing fit and through the haze I can see him covering his mouth with his overcoat. “The ceiling comes crashing down and you charge right at it like a duckling running for its mommy. You never would have made it through alive!”

He is right. I was so focused on getting past that point I would have jumped into my stony grave instead of accepting my failure and trying to find another path. It was stupid and only his intervention saved me from my just rewards. “You’re right Ralof. Sorry, I panicked. Thanks for pulling me back.”

We disentangle and brush the dust off ourselves. My mouth feels dry, I must have breathed in a lot of the tiny rock particles and no amount of spitting seems to make things better. Ralof is checking the site of the collapse but the pieces look much too large to be moved with human strength. “Hjilga, can you hear me?”

He has to shout to be heard but they are able to communicate. Hjilga is alive but the rockslide crushed her leg and she is unable to pull it out. If we can’t reach her she will be but another nameless skeleton lost in this cave.

“Hey Ralof, look up there.” I point upward to where the warm light of day rains down through a wide hole in the ceiling. “If we get some rope and an improvised grappling hook we could make it up there, then we just need to find another entrance to the cave further on and backtrack to Hjilga.”

My companion seems skeptical. “That’s pretty high up. But let’s give it a try.”

Rope as it turns out is easy enough to find, but a grappling hook less so. In the end we have to settle for one of Ralof’s axes. He draws his arm back and tosses the roped weapon with all his strength but it falls well short of its target.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

He gives me a confused look.

“You’re not just throwing the ax but also the rope. Here, like this.” I grab the rope about a meter from the knot and swing it in a vertical circle, slowly building momentum. When it feels like I can’t build up much more speed I release and aim for the opening above. It soars much higher but bounces off the stone instead of going over the rim into the sky.

I feel the urge to make some pun here but I don’t think the Stormcloak would appreciate it very much.

We switch out multiple times and it takes us probably something like forty or fifty tries to get the ax over the edge and hooked well enough to withstand our most vigorous tugging; after a while I no longer bothered to keep count. At least this gave both of us time to clean ourselves up and take a drink from the invigorating fresh spring water.

“You go up first, you’re lighter.” The climb isn’t easy but with Ralof giving me a boost at the start I after a while make it up far enough to brace against the wall from which point on the task becomes more manageable. Once up I pull on the rope to reduce the strain of my companion’s weight on our precariously secured grappling hook and Ralof too reaches the top. I greedily take in the fresh air and bask in the unobscured sun shining bright on us; I have made it out of the starting dungeon. Granted, I will go back in shortly but nevertheless I feel safer and more confident now than at any point since this deranged nightmare started. I can push my way through and then once no longer harried by the prospect of imminent death I’ll have time to figure out what to do about all this.

Up on the untamed mountainside we soon find another hole leading down into a familiar place; two streams merging into one, the leftward one coming forth from a low corridor barred by well-rusted iron. This is where we find Hjilga, her fierce features marred with sweat and pain. She seems to have made it to the wooden bridge but the crushing stone ripped right through and tore her down along with it.

“Ralof, please, I don’t want to lose my leg today.” She seems close to crying and I can’t blame her; being decisive and determined in battle is one thing, lying in agonizing uncertainty for however long it took us to get here quite another. From the boulder’s size her leg must be more crushed than broken. If we had the necessary strength we’d probably rip it off before managing to pull her free.

“Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.” Ralof kneels down to wipe the sweat from her brow. He looks up at me. “Potions?”

I check my bag. It seems my earlier fall has reduced one of them to useless shards but the others are luckily intact. “Got four left. Best keep one for after we pull her leg out, might rough her up again on the way.”

Using the flat of Ralof’s ax we hammer some pieces of the shattered bridge between ground and offending rock to relieve the pressure on her leg then quickly exhaust our magical healing supply. The suppressed pain visibly fades from Hjilga but her persistent fear is evident.

Ralof and I ready ourselves to pull her out. “Alright Reinhardson, grab tight, we’ll pull her out on three.”

“Is that one-two-pull or one-two-three-pull?”

“… One-two-pull.”

I nod. “Alright. Ready when you are.”

Ralof takes a deep breath to center himself then gives the command. “One, two, _three_!”

After a moment of unyielding resistance I can feel her captive leg slowly moving and redouble my efforts, my own right leg braced against the stone and pushing hard to unbend itself. We keep the momentum going and soon free her from rock and boot, the latter remaining stuck.

“You alright?” Ralof asks with clear concern.

She nods tensely. “Looks like everything’s still attached. You guys saved my life.”

“Just the leg dear.” I hand her the final potion to handle the scrapes and bruises she had sustained on the way out.

Hjilga scoffs derisively. “Like I would have made it through here with only one leg.”

I can’t argue with that so I remain silent. There is still some fighting ahead of us. The feeling left by draining my magicka hasn’t subsided so it seems regeneration is many times slower than in the game. I’m pretty sure the mage’s hood I took raises your magicka so it might be good to switch out the officer’s helmet. Although… do I have to? I struggle to think of a good reason why the hood shouldn’t work while worn over or under a mundane helmet. I can see two magical headpieces not working in conjunction through some kind of interference, like with the body slots in Dungeons & Dragons, but the same makes little sense for mundane gear. Although there must be some form of enforced exclusivity, otherwise why should mages only wear flimsy robes into combat? Sure, they wouldn’t be trained in or comfortable with the heavier types of armour, but even a simple gambeson offers some mild protection. Best guess I can hazard is that it is culturally rooted for mages to remain unarmoured.

I will have to ditch the officer’s helmet soon anyway, it is too recognizable. In the game no one minded if you waltzed by an Imperial or Stormcloak patrol clad in full garb of their enemies. I have severe doubts this will hold true now, thus the helmet is exchanged for hood and shield or sword likewise give way to the bow I had taken from the Imperial I drowned.

“You might want to take the shield,” I say to Ralof.

“Why’s that?”

“If we’re going to fight anything down here it won’t be Imperials. You did well with the axes, but it won’t help you block a troll’s claws or a spider’s poison spit.” Rather a bear’s claw instead of a troll’s, but I have no intention of advertising my foreknowledge.

He makes a face like he had just bitten into a particularly sour lemon. “Oh Divines, anything but spiders.”

“You’d rather fight a troll? I’m pretty sure we’d lose.”

“Yes, but… at least it isn’t _spiders_.”

I can see Hjilga even started smiling at the byplay so I decide to keep teasing him a bit. After the ordeal she has been through a bit of a laugh is good medicine. “You know, I think I get it. At least Sovngarde awaits if a troll rips your head off, but I doubt they’d open the gates if you died screaming in terror because eight legs freak you out.”

Ralof gives me a sour look. “That was mean. And there I was planning to put in a good word for you if I die first.”

“Well I would likely need it, if you die down here I expect I’d be soon to follow.”

His lips curl up in a smile and he claps me on the shoulder. “I think you got that right. Now hand over that shield before I change my mind.”

“And there they always say it’s the girls who are afraid of itsy bitsy spiders,” Hjilga says, standing slightly off-kilter with only one boot to her name. “I never knew this of you Ralof. Well, since you were so nice to save me I will not spread this tale with our companions. Probably.”

Ralof grumbles but elects not to answer, perhaps expecting it will only draw yet another jest. I can see a shiver go through his body when soon after we pass through thick cobwebs on our path but when it comes to fighting the over-sized arachnids he does well enough and with two shielded fighters in the front and me in the back providing support with spell and bow things go without a hitch. I even kept our empty potion vials in anticipation of collecting their poison. Or venom? I confuse these at times since in my native German tongue there is one term for both.

Rather inconveniently neither Ralof nor Hjilga know where the spider’s poison sac is located and how to drain it. I try it myself with a sharp steel dagger but only end up cutting too deep at an inopportune moment and the sickly green liquid bites into my hand with its icy touch. Healing the wound consumes the last of my magic reserves and only the knowledge that I can use a magicka potion for some more healing gives me the confidence to try again. In the end I manage to fill four vials with the pestilent fluid and I hope it was worth the pain.

We soon eagerly return to pleasant daylight after sneaking by the bear. Alduin doesn’t make a convenient fly-by as we exit the cave. I suspect he took off long ago. I take in the lush vivid landscape and dazzling scent of unfamiliar flowers in bloom before the ominous backdrop of Bleak Falls Barrow looming in the distance. It was rare to see such pristine untouched nature back home before what is for all intents and purposes an isekai plot. Sadly this one doesn’t come with fancy world-breaking powers, unless of course we count being the Dragonborn which presumably I am; I was put in the very same situation as in the game and so far there were no major deviations. Also, I think Alduin’s attack wasn’t random, I always assumed he sensed the presence of the Dragonborn but I could be wrong about that. Either way I should confirm this as soon as feasible.

“We should probably split up. I’ll make for the Falkreath camp and report to commander Thorygg, perhaps he can send some men to run interference if the Imperials send pursuers after Jarl Ulfric.” Hjilga had taken part of their eponymous cloak to make a wrap for her foot and bound it with some untangled fibers from our rope. It certainly isn’t ideal as far as footwear goes but it would have to do. She resolutely refused offers to take one of our boots.

Ralof nods in agreement after considering for a moment. “That sounds like a good idea. I’ll make a stop in Riverwood, my sister runs the mill there. Then I’ll see if I can catch up to Jarl Ulfric on the way to Windhelm. Reinhardson, what about you? You’re welcome to spend the night, after a day like this some rest and a good drink are certainly advisable.”

I nod slowly as I pretend to consider his offer; apart from Hjilga this sequence of events was already expected and planned for. “Sounds good to me. After my first real fight already had a dragon and spiders and Imperials, I don’t need a pack of wild wolves mauling me in my sleep.”

“That was your first?” Hjilga looks visibly startled. “I knew you were a bit green but you drowned that Imperial bastard like it was nothing.”

I shift uneasily. The longer I’ve spent with people here the more I’ve come to see them as real independent persons. I’ve never had any moral misgivings about someone using lethal force in self-defense but actually having to go through with it in person is quite another matter. “Actually I pulled his head out of the water after he passed out. Might still have killed him or someone came along in time to save him. Either way, a single soldier shouldn’t turn the tide of the war, right?”

I’m not sure what to make of her reaction. She seems disappointed, perhaps because I don’t share her homicidal hatred for the Empire’s soldiers. Ralof of course already knew, I told him back when we were stuck in that cave longer than anticipated. But after checking on the Imperial himself he assured me the man wouldn’t come to any time soon, if ever.

We soon embrace and say our goodbyes then split up with Ralof and me taking a scarcely beaten path down the mountain’s slope towards the churning White River at its foot. The flora is much more colourful and varied than I remember from the unmodded game, its lush greens speckled with blues and reds and violets of manifold flowers. I know some of these are alchemy ingredients but neglect to start collecting them; it would be much more work than a simple click and I probably don’t have the time to get proficient in alchemy anyway. Right now the civil war is on a simmer thanks to the central Hold of Whiterun maintaining strict neutrality but sooner or later the conflict between the Empire and Stormcloaks would wash over Skyrim with fire and fury. Becoming a skilled fighter, mage, smith and alchemist would take years. No, that is still too optimistic, there are people with a lifetime of experience ahead of me in their respective craft. If I want to do anything but hide in the clash between Imperials, Stormcloaks and dragons I need to attain power fast and take any shortcut I can think of.

The civil war is the first matter where I feel I can right now make a small difference with a simple step. I have already thrown in my lot with the Stormcloaks and I intend to stick with that. I’ve seen people compare them to Nazis but that always seemed superficial at best to me, blond blue-eyed dudes with Norse iconography and some issues with racism, but that is where the similarities end. They are an insurrection seeking independence from a continent-spanning empire to escape religious persecution, nothing about that matches the decade of darkness in my country. And Elder Scrolls already has a Nazi equivalent in the Thalmor anyway. Taking the analogy further, that would make the Empire a British Commonwealth that had lost the war and was forced to accede to a peace treaty outlawing the Jewish religion and allowing the Third Reich to send Hans Landa wannabes into their lands to root out any persistent faithful. The Stormcloaks in turn would be Jewish separatists in the Levant who decided to rise up instead of facing violent persecution in their ancestral homeland.

Quite the opposite of a Nazi in my book.

In the end it is the Thalmor who benefit the most from a protracted civil war to weaken the Empire before the inevitable next conflict and the best thing would be a quick and decisive resolution in favour of either side. To me it feels like a devil’s choice between pragmatism and idealism; an Empire standing united against the Thalmor would have the best chances in the coming war but allowing the persecution and murder of Talos worshipers to go on in exchange for better odds at winning a war years or even decades away is morally bankrupt. I have always been more on the side of pragmatism and realpolitik but the awesome power of the Dragonborn is a game-changer. Brought to its full potential it can bring the Thalmor to their knees without having to bow to their demands.

My decision set I put the first domino on the board. “Say Ralof, isn’t there a shrine of Talos close by? I think I saw a mention of it when reading about the Guardian Stones near Riverwood.”

He nods. It seems my explanation was reasonable enough to not draw scrutiny. “You got that right. Why, do you want to stop by?”

I make a wide gesture with my arms. “After what we’ve been through I’d say thankful prayers have rarely been more warranted, don’t you think?”

Ralof laughs. “I guess so. Good to know where you stand my friend. Didn’t have much opportunity to talk about things not of immediate concern.”

My reasons for visiting the shrine are less spiritual of course. Ralof’s good mood soon evaporates when we take the final steps up to the worship site and see the butchered bodies lying in the shadow of Talos’s stone-hewn effigy. Men and women, all of them in simple civilian garb, cut down mercilessly with a cruelty reserved for those with burning hatred for their victims.

“Talos’s beard, what happened here?”

“Thalmor.” I kneel down next to the one body that matters and sift through its belongings for the written orders I expect to be here and my efforts are soon rewarded with a folded piece of paper. So paper does exist in Elder Scrolls, not just parchment. Opening the fateful document I realize this will be my first time taking a look at Skyrim’s script; in my hurry to escape the dungeon I had no time to give the two recovered books a closer inspection. I think it looks about the same as in the game which had one font for books and another less elaborate hand for single pages like this though it can’t quite be called a cursive. Probably closest to a Carolingian Minuscule which makes sense since players are supposed to be able to read this without going through a palaeography course first. Round s in all positions, no variant letter forms in general, majuscule where one would expect it in English orthography, some of them in Uncial form. This is the kind of stuff I can nerd out over for hours although I fear it will end up a letdown; perfectly regular letter shapes, standardized modern spelling and no ligature or abbreviation to be seen. So in the end it is pretty much just a modern font that pretends to look somewhat medieval. In a way I’m even disappointed the native script wasn’t transformed into something more challenging when game became simulated reality.

“Reinhardson, what does it say?” Apparently I have taken long enough to study the document.

“Written orders to track down this shrine, signed and sealed by Elenwen.”

Ralof’s face scrunches up in fury. “That vile cur! I hope the dragon is digesting her right now.”

“I doubt it, the Thalmor don’t seem the kind of people to have their superiors lead from the front.” I start disrobing the cold, stiff body with some difficulty. It seems Thalmor robes are a more narrow fit.

Ralof approaches with a frown. “What are you doing?”

“Taking the very distinct Thalmor dress of course. The more proof we can offer of this the better. Jarl Balgruuf maintains strict neutrality, right? I expect he would not be too happy with what the Empire allows to happen in his Hold.” In the game Whiterun ultimately sided with the Empire when the Jarl could no longer play at being Switzerland after Ulfric, driven by foolish arrogance, forced his hand. If I want to achieve a clean Stormcloak victory this unfolding of events is something I have to change.

“He hasn’t declared for either side much to Jarl Ulfric’s annoyance,” Ralof answers as he kneels down to help me in undressing the Altmer. “There’s bad blood between them, they have been at odds with each other for years even before the war started. But he is a good ruler who looks out for his people. I know my sister thinks highly of him.”

“That’s probably why he so adamantly refuses to join the fight for Skyrim,” I reason. “Whiterun is the central Hold and would suffer the most in open warfare between Stormcloaks and Imperials. And as long as both sides have hopes of turning him to their cause they will be hesitant to anger him with military actions inside his territory. Balgruuf is dancing on a knife’s edge to keep the war from spilling into Whiterun. If he is to be swayed despite his misgivings about Ulfric he has to be convinced of two things: one, that the status quo with the Empire is unacceptable. Two, that the Stormcloaks will end up victorious.” The power of the Dragonborn will be invaluable for the latter – if indeed I am the one who holds it.

The Nord warrior gives me a puzzled look. “What kind of status?”

I open my mouth to explain but then hesitate and think better of it. So far everything here seemed to match modern English, but I guess Latin terms even when in common usage are out. “What I mean is, the situation as it is right now is not one he can bear to maintain. He has to understand that change is vital, and if he keeps just standing on the sidelines it could well be a change for the worse.”

“I’m afraid I’m less of a diplomat than you are a warrior,” Ralof says with a thoughtful expression. “But what you speak makes sense Reinhardson. Someone has to bring news of Helgen to Whiterun anyway, and if you’re already in the Jarl’s good graces it would be a good opportunity to present evidence of what the Empire allowed to happen here…”

“That’s quite the astute observation for someone who claims to know nothing of diplomacy,” I say with a smirk. The Thalmor agent has been stripped down to his undergarments and I put the silken smoothness of his robes into my knapsack. Looks like he was done in by a single stab to the side that must have perforated his lung, probably a dagger. It is my first close look at someone who isn’t human; the tall and wiry body would easily pass for a man safe for the skin’s golden hue and I doubt the lack of body hair is the result of diligent waxing. I also notice that his facial features lack the rough, blocky lines I saw in the games and are more in line with the classic Elven image as it was depicted later on in the Elder Scrolls Online trailers. “Think you can organize a party in Riverwood to retrieve and bury the bodies?”

“Don’t you worry, my sister will see to it. She has a way that makes people listen.” His tone is bitter-sweet. Was Gerdur the bossy older sister type, or perhaps even the type that would intentionally play on his fear of spiders? As adults we often forget that children can have a casual cruelty amongst their peers.

Our business here concluded, we move on to Riverwood, fortunately without getting waylaid by overly aggressive wolves. On our short stop at the Guardian Stones I put my hand on the central Mage Stone. At first nothing happens, leaving me to wonder if there is something I’m required to do to activate it, but then a soft tingle crawls up my prickling skin and the constellation carved into the menhir alights in a radiant blue-white. When I withdraw my hand there is a lingering, pleasant warmth. These ancient stones are in a way a method of rewriting your own fate, choosing the constellation that favours you instead of having it be determined by the time of your birth. I smile at the fortuitous thought. Rewriting my fate through my own efforts. An endeavour worth pursuing.

The walk is much longer than I remember and it must be late afternoon by the time we arrive at Riverwood. I’ve been up and about since early in the morning, wearing unfamiliar footwear and going through a physical and mental ordeal unlike anything I have faced before, so it is with great relief I more fall than sit down on a recently cut tree stump while Ralof introduces us and tells the tale of what we experienced to an attentive audience comprised of Gerdur, Hod and their son Frodnar, the latter particularly eager to hear all about this adventure. I’m not sure when people are considered to be of fighting age in Skyrim; the boy looks to be on the verge of becoming a teenager but he still has some miles ahead of him before the first fuzz will grow above his lips. I don't think I like how Ralof says he will soon be old enough to join the fight but I have to keep in mind that things were much different in earlier times. A hundred years ago men were expected to fight and die in the trenches at an age when nowadays people still go to school. Although I have to wonder how much of all that really happened; for how long has this ‘Main Simulation’ been running?

“So what will you do now?” Gerdur asks once Ralof has finished his telling.

“We’ll rest for the night then we make for Whiterun. Reinhardson here will give a report to the Jarl while I continue on to Windhelm. With any luck he can convince Balgruuf to station some guards around here. It may not be enough to handle a dragon, but people at least need the sense of security to go about their lives in peace.”

“We should probably pick up some fresh clothes before we head out,” I point out. “If we come across an Imperial patrol it would not be advisable to wear Stormcloak colours. I’d rather avoid another fight, especially since an important task hinges on our safe arrival.”

“I can see if Hod has anything your size, or check the Riverwood Trader. He might have other things you need, tell Lucan I sent you and to settle whatever you buy with the 15 Septims he still owes me, that’s the least I can do to thank you for saving my brother,” Gerdur says.

“His version of events has been overly generous, he saved me more than I saved him.”

The Nord woman makes a dismissive gesture. “Either way, you have been of great help to me and my family and I am very grateful for that. Now as for you Ralof, you will escort this fine gentleman here to Whiterun and not engage if you come across any Imperials. Sovngarde be damned, you better not die on me a day after you survive a dragon.”

“Gerdur, _please_.” Ralof’s tone is somewhere between begging and wailing.

“Oh shut up little brother, if I wanted to embarrass you I’d tell the story with the hornet’s nest from when you were nine.”

“… Yes, Gerdur.”

Jormungand’s teeth, that poor guy is completely whipped. And by his sister no less. If he ever gets married to such a woman he might as well geld himself right away and hand her his manhood instead of waiting for her to take it herself.

I make no effort to hide my groan as I ponderously regain my feet. I earned the right to that groan, thank you very much. Luckily my protesting legs won’t have much further to walk, though the little hamlet of Riverwood seems to stretch over a larger area than in the game. Still, the Riverwood Trader is easy enough to find as the building is the only stone structure around save for the water mill and the guard gates on the main road hugging the river as it runs through the village. Both Lucan and Camilla are on the ground floor with its wild assortment of displayed wares though they seemed to be talking about the violently mundane topic of supper instead of letting me overhear their argument over the Golden Claw. Oh well, I won’t tackle that quest right now anyway. Not a chance in hell I will start beating up bandits and draugr only carrying the most basic gear while not enjoying the conveniences of hit points, save games and enemies tailored to my current level. But luckily I know how to get some quality equipment without having to go through any combat…

My appearance doesn’t bring out the eager salesman in Lucan Valerius and I see the features below his receding hairline scrunch up. “Another Stormcloak, huh?”

I try to give him a reassuring smile. “Not quite, though I understand the assumption. I’d rather avoid further such misunderstandings so I’d like to get a new tunic and cloak. I’m thinking something like brown for one and a dark green for the other, either way works fine.”

“Sure, that can be arranged…” He gives me a critical look. “You’re not a deserter, are you?”

“No, I just happened to be at Helgen and when the dragon hit I grabbed whatever was available to get out of this mess alive. With my life on the line I’m not too picky about colours.”

This statement draws quite the reaction, startled from Lucan but more eager and curious from his sister. Interesting. “You… you saw the dragon?”

“Yep. Close enough to count his teeth. Or hers. Though I didn’t get close enough to check on _that_ part.”

Camilla smiles, revealing a set of dimples below the high cheek-bones of her captivating features that seem to hungrily draw the light to turn all the lesser sights around her into an indistinct haze. Well, no wonder at least two guys are madly in love with her. In Greek mythology a face like hers might well launch a couple dozen ships. And unlike mine her dimples are symmetrical whereas the one on my right side is far more pronounced than the other. As I understand it facial symmetry plays a huge part in attractiveness, so point for her I guess.

I end up leaving with a dark green cloak, two sets of clothes in brown and a deep blue bordering on black, a water skin, dried meat and berries, soap, a comb carved from bone, sturdy but lightweight rope and a couple extra arrows. The merchant isn’t too happy when it turns out I won’t be handing over any coin for his wares but in the end he has to acquiesce and I say my farewells without having to part with any of my hard-earned cash. He didn’t ask me to retrieve his treasured claw, either because I have to be the one to initiate that conversation after overhearing them talk about it or because in all honesty I probably still don’t look much of a warrior even with armour obscuring some of my more slender frame. I wonder if he will task anyone else with rooting out the bandits at Bleak Falls Barrow or if perhaps they will just move on to another location. If they manage to retrieve the Golden Claw from that humongous spider and wander off to parts unknown I will be so fucked. I need the Dragonstone, and I need that Word Wall to confirm whether or not I am indeed the Dragonborn but breaching that gate without its peculiar key would be a Herculean task. It could probably withstand a barrage of cannon shots.

There is a topic worth thinking about. When not constrained by the game’s options, what useful ‘inventions’ can I come up with? Gunpowder is one of the first things anyone’s mind would wander to, but I’d consider the chances slim at best. One, I may know the three ingredients but that is a far cry removed from making a suitably explosive mixture. What’s more, this isn’t time travel but a bona fide fantasy setting and I have no guarantee whatsoever that the underlying physical laws work the same way I know them to. Didn’t I once read something about the sun being a giant hole in the plane of Oblivion instead of a celestial body? The Elder Scrolls has some weird and convoluted lore. I’m not even entirely sure this world is round. Though I’m quite confident it is not balanced on the backs of four elephants.

Lest Darkness Fall is a classic of alternate history with its modern protagonist getting transported into the Ostrogothic kingdom in the Italy of late antiquity. I remember his experiments with gunpowder failed too. What were his early steps again… Introducing Arab numbers – well, Indian actually – for way easier calculation and book-keeping. A clever idea, but I already saw modern numerals in the Thalmor document. Paper, already present. The printing press, an invaluable innovation for the advancement of society but not a pressing need given the current situation.

Chemical warfare and hot air balloons. No guarantee here on the former, for all I know the basic building blocks of matter here might as well be the classical elements of fire, air, earth and water instead of atoms. But I saw smoke rise up so it is lighter than air, thus the concept of a hot air balloon should be sound. Actually, what about flight spells? In Morrowind they were available. Was that magic lost somehow with the passing of time or did the game creators just not include it because it would be inconvenient for their dungeon design?

I’m still absorbed in my considerations when I’m approached by a blond Nord who crosses his arms and looks at me with an expression of smug superiority. I immediately dislike him so I assume it is Sven. My educated guess turns out to be right and after seeing me exit the Riverwood Trader he gives me his spiel and bids me to deliver that letter to Camilla. I stalk off to Faendal who tries to entice me into the very same harebrained scheme but I decide to talk him out of it.

“Faendal, I can show Camilla that fake letter of Sven’s to let her see what kind of guy he is, but do you really want to stoop to the same level? Even if it works out, you’ll always know deep down that your relationship was built on a foundation of lies. If she really likes you it will work out without such trickery.” Now to see what his true colours are. If he persists I think neither of them deserves to reap success in their amorous endeavor, least of all with my help.

The elf… mer is pensive for a while but then returns his gaze to me with a determined look in his eyes. “You’re right. I guess I overreacted, the thought of her falling for that snake was unbearable but I must trust her judgment of character. The truth must suffice for her to see who he is, no trickery." I'm not entirely convinced he had a true change of heart or just tries to appease me to secure my help, but in the end I too have to trust Camilla's ability to see the true character of her suitors.

The rest is simple enough though it turns out unexpectedly hard to part from Camilla who is all too eager to hear everything about my adventure well after the anger at Sven that darkened her face gave way to an endearing exuberance. In lieu of payment I negotiate for Faendal to give me some pointers in archery for the next couple of hours. My body might well be planning a coup d'état against my brain for that unpopular decision but it was mostly my legs that were strained today, although my arms quickly catch up during Faendal’s archery training.

“The draw weight is too tough on you, you should do some physical training and get a lighter bow in the meantime.”

“That’s a nice way of saying my arms are too spindly for me to become a decent archer,” I say with a mirthless smile.

We made good progress and I feel like I have gotten noticeably better in archery after thoroughly drilling the basics for the very first time, but I don’t have the impression that my improvement was better than it would have been with a decent trainer back in the main simulation. So, the superhuman learning speed from the game, not in effect. Thus there is no point in going through the smithing introduction here since I have no time to acquire yet another complex and highly taxing skill. Which is a shame, my maternal grandfather was an exceptionally skilled smith and I wish I had learned some things from him before dementia forced his mind into a sharp decline.

On the upside, without levels the equipment available in shops shouldn’t be leveled either so it won’t be necessary for me to smith things myself. I should be able to acquire better materials once I have the requisite cash. As for a weapon, I should probably get myself a crossbow. It is much more convenient to use, point and click whereas becoming skilled in archery takes years of training. I know crossbows were introduced with the Dawnguard expansion, although I only ever played the base game. I should be wary of any new threats the expansions introduced I’m not familiar with from my own playthrough. I’m quite sure there were three of them. Dawnguard with the vampires. Hearthfire gave you new options for building a home and family, so basically The Sims I guess. And Dragonborn… what did that one add exactly? I have absolutely no idea beyond some basic things like new Shouts and items.

I have to be on the lookout for any time-sensitive events that will only get worse if not attended to. The civil war and Alduin are the obvious ones. There was the Eye of Magnus at the College, although I don’t remember what calamity is supposed to occur when it falls into the wrong hands. Will they even discover it on their own? I remember it was the player character who stumbled upon it during the excavation.

The sun sets on the ominous events of the day, bathing the world in twilight reflecting off the dark waters of the White River. I have one more unsavory task ahead of me before I can finally let sleep claim my exhausted body. I take a short walk along the currents to remove myself from prying ears and with my foot draw a sign into the dirt before speaking.

“Console. Open console. Menu. Open Menu. Escape. Help. Exit. Quit. Options. Pause. Command – console. Command – quit. Control alt delete. Debug mode. Enable debug mode. Quicksave.” My foot shifts a stone half a meter to the left. “Quickload.”

Nothing, of course. Jailbreak wouldn’t come so easy, but I had to try. I scrunch up a handful of dry dirt and toss it into the air; thousands and thousands of particles, each moving independently, but it has no effect on the ‘frame rate’. This simulation is near as I can tell perfect with no hardware limitations as I know them. I briefly toy with the idea of going higher than the highest mountain and trying to break things with render distance, but I’m quite certain that would work no better than in the main simulation.

But, despite the scant few words that booming voice spoke to me they may have inadvertently given me too much. Initiate experimental simulation. In my previous life there was nothing to betray that the physical reality as I know it wasn’t real, no glitches, no bugs or other noticeable abnormalities. But the same need not hold true here. This is something new and untested enough to be called experimental. There will be flaws, mistakes, and if I manage to locate them I can pull things apart at the seams to look behind the veil and see the world for how it truly is.

I decide I have delayed the unpleasant part long enough. I take several deep breaths to ready myself for the ordeal that is to come. The white glow of my healing spell alights in the growing darkness and it isn’t long until I again feel the sharp jolt of pain from the very start of this ill-begotten adventure. The urge to bite down is overwhelming but my teeth need the room to push out my metal fillings as they regrow. After a seeming eternity the excruciating pain finally fades and I sink to my knees with sweat dampening my hair and clothes. I spit the metal fragments into my hand and close my fist over them, taking several minutes to recover as my breath returns to a slow and steady pace. My aching body returns to its feet and I toss the former dental parts into the White River turned black with night. Tomorrow, we would make for Whiterun, and after that continue on to Windhelm where the next step of my plan awaits.

Rejoice, young man. Your prayers are about to be answered.


	2. A Fistful of Septims

A splash of cold water in my face dispels the last vestiges of sleep from my mind. If I had any lingering hope of this all having been just a deranged fever dream it died an inglorious death when upon waking up I found an unfamiliar ceiling of rough-cut timber staring down at me. A quick look at the potions on the bedside table did the rest; we had expended our supply to save Hjilga but Gerdur insisted on giving us some fresh ones just in case. Poor Ralof. While it is clear they care deeply about each other I have little doubt he got the short end of the straw whenever they were arguing.

I rotate my shoulder and stretch my body, still feeling the soreness from the trials of yesterday. It seems healing magic does nothing about muscle fatigue so I guess that one falls under stamina instead of health. Given the amount of walking I’m likely to do in the foreseeable future I desperately wish for a Restore Stamina spell. Well, perhaps it does exist, there are potions after all.

Shaving is a bit different to say the least. My dermatitis gives me sensitive skin so it took me some time to find the right razor and foam. Here, I need not worry as I can just do a hackjob of it and then heal the miniature battlefield left on my cheeks right after. Well, that’s the easy part, but the other matters of body care leave me stumped. Regarding more esoteric matters like magic I can always inquire without looking suspicious, but with things that everyone who has lived in this world would know it is much harder to inconspicuously ask about them. What am I supposed to say, ‘Hey Ralof, how do you clean your ass?’

Oh well, I will figure things out as I go along. I put on my new cloak with a flourish, the weight of the thick fabric softly pressing down on my shoulders. Once I hit a tailor in Whiterun I might go for a coat instead, but that has to wait until after I get my desired set of armour to make sure it has the right fit.

There will be a price to pay, but I knew that from the start and chose this path anyway.

The sleepless turning before darkness claimed me had provided me with some more ideas and I visit the Riverwood Trader once more while Ralof gets ready and says his goodbyes. I quickly assuage Lucan that this time I will pay in coin, otherwise I fear the poor guy might have popped a vein first thing in the morning. Gloves, writing utensils, a bedroll, some lockpicks and a padlock to train this craft of questionable legality in my off hours. As a kid I toyed around with little padlocks and pieces of wire and actually got them open but that is probably more a testament to their cheapness than my inherent skill.

As I return to Gerdur’s house the door is opened from the inside before I can put my hand on it and I take a step back in breathless shock.

“What?” Ralof asks.

“You… you shaved.”

“Hrm? Yes I did.” His hand brushes over the smooth skin of his cheek, the previously full beard reduced to a bushy mustache and a line running down from lip to chin. I think this style is called a Van Dyke. “I prefer to wear it like that but it was too much of a hassle while out on campaign.”

“Sorry,” I say hesitantly. “I guess I was just surprised after I got so used to your previous look.”

The skin between his eyebrows contracts into a puzzled furrow. “We’ve known each other for a single day.”

“Right, right. Guess with all the stress it felt much longer.”

I can tell my reaction still feels weird to him, but it’s not like he could ever guess at the true reason. To me the scarcely developed figure of Ralof has been no stranger for years and in all this time he never changed save for a reskin of his armour in a mod I had used later on. The ‘real’ Ralof was a faithful adaptation of the game character, even including the voice. I wonder how that will work later on; there was one voice actor who spoke what at times felt like half the male roles of Skyrim. It broke immersion more than anything else in the game since his voice is very recognizable as you hear it over and over again. I’m rather curious how that will go down once I meet Balgruuf.

Ralof informed me that with a moderate walking pace we would reach a hunter’s cabin along the road to spend the night and then arrive at Whiterun sometime about noon the following day. I have a decent enough idea of Skyrim’s geography and major sites but of course the actual scale is very different from what I’m familiar with. The land’s overall width seems to be somewhere between 700 and 800 miles. Another thing I will have to get used to, Imperial units instead of metric.

New plan: prove I am the Dragonborn, defeat Alduin, claim to be a lost heir of the old royal bloodline, be proclaimed emperor, then introduce the metric system.

Yeah, right.

The long walk gives the two of us much time to talk and I have to be careful how to weave my cover story. I contemplated identifying myself as a scholar but my knowledge of this world is much too superficial; all those lore books in the game were just cliff notes of a tome containing a hundredfold more text. In the end I decide to say I worked as a scribe and came to check on the family of a deceased friend. The boy should be smart enough to play along and far as I know there is no one else around to contradict my story.

I can’t help but be amazed by the beauty of the landscape, its vivid colours, alien plant life and the rich fragrance of resin and leaves rustling in the wind as they slowly fade from green to yellow. The woods are barely tamed here and where a venerable tree fell nothing was done but to push it to the side, off the snaking path to be claimed by moss and fungi while the fallen giant slowly rots away. The clear waters of the White River fall steeply as we descend the outskirts of the mountain to our back; the journey back later will be far more arduous. I’m more of a biker than a walker but I’m not so much of a couch potato a day’s walk would kill me. If anything my stamina is better than it has been in a long time thanks to Skyrim’s magic. When I was eighteen I was hit by a car. Got thrown a couple of meters through the air and blacked out for a moment but when checking my body later on I only found a single tiny scratch on me. I guess my trusted trench coat has a good armour rating.

Except it wasn’t that simple. In the following years my breathing got steadily worse and only after almost suffocating in my sleep did I finally have the bright idea to maybe visit a doctor about it. As it turned out the septum in my nose was not just broken but completely shattered, leading to a significant deviation which messed up my air intake. It wasn’t something our medicine could completely fix. But healing magic? Piece of cake, and now I can breathe more deeply and freely than in a long, long time. I guess in this giant shitshow of mortal danger and ontological uncertainty there are also some hidden boons.

But even with this welcome restoration our march is taxing on someone unused to it. Of course, I am able to cheat; blisters are easily healed by spell and with some reluctance I gulp down my lone stamina potion to ensure we reach the cabin before nightfall. It has a sweet taste to it, reminiscent of honey mixed with some spicy herbs. In the end two very challenging days in a row while going about in unfamiliar footwear was too much for me without that little aid.

It is only on the second day the products of man’s handiwork become more apparent. The shadowy canopy of trees clears up and we get a marvelous view of the expansive plains stretched out at the feet of our path, sprawling farms and fields of green arrayed around the towering walls of Whiterun with the impressive structure of Dragonsreach soaring high up to the sky. Other travelers have been an infrequent occurrence so far and the Khajiit in a dull orange robe coming our way is the first of his kind I have met yet. He seems oddly familiar but only once he speaks am I able to place him.

“M’aiq wishes you well.”

M’aiq the Liar. The game’s resident fourth wall breaker. He has stopped as he addressed us and so have we. Ralof seems to be confused by the encounter but keeps his hand well clear of the ax at his belt.

“Can we help you wanderer?”

"Nords are so serious about beards. So many beards. M'aiq thinks they wish they had glorious manes like Khajiit."

Ralof snorts and brushes over his mustache with thumb and pointer. “I guess it would help with the cold of winter, but keeping a whole body of hair in order sounds like way too much work, so no thanks.”

"M'aiq is very practical. He has no need for mysticism."

An uncomfortable feeling constricts my chest like a steel corset, some invisible dread barely at the edge of perception compelling me to constantly check over my shoulder. Something feels very wrong here. “M’aiq, have you heard about the dragon?”

"Dragons were never gone. They were just invisible and very, very quiet."

“The poor guy’s mad, his wits have been stolen by Sheogorath,” Ralof proclaims.

“No, I don’t think so.” Now I am sure of it. The body language. The twitching of his facial muscles. The detached look in his eyes. I at last have found an NPC.

I take off my cloak and throw it over his head. M’aiq doesn’t react, remaining rooted in place like a covered bird cage while I walk clockwise around his obscured figure.

Ralof is clearly startled. “Why doesn’t he do anything?”

“Because we no longer interact with him and now that he can’t see us we might as well have ceased existing. He’ll probably wander on soon with the cloak still over his head.”

My companion seems unsure what to make of that, his face contorted in a puzzled frown. “Is… is that a Khajiit thing?”

“No, it very much isn’t,” I say with finality as I come to a stop back in front of M’aiq. “It’s because he’s empty. He doesn’t have a soul.”

“He _what_? I have never heard of such a thing.”

“See for yourself.” I rip away the cloak, revealing a completely unperturbed M’aiq who doesn’t give any indication of caring about what I just did. “Look at him. Really _look at him_.”

Ralof comes closer and scrutinizes the Khajiit intently, stripping away layer by layer like peeling an onion to find the hidden root of his being. Then he recoils and his eyes widen in utter horror; at last, he has seen. “Divines protect me. What is that?”

It is his first encounter with the Uncanny Valley. A very life-like artificial imitation of a human – or similar - that nevertheless somehow feels off and unnatural in a way that may be hard to pin down but is still clearly there and provokes an unsettling eerie feeling in the onlooker.

But why? Everyone else so far seemed a real person. Why are there still these lesser imitations, and what does it mean that it is M’aiq of all people, the one character who intentionally broke immersion and gave answers that subtly acknowledged that Skyrim was a game?

“M’aiq, tell me about subjects.”

The Khajiit sways in place and gives his answer. “M’aiq was a subject once, as was M’aiq before him, but the same can’t be said for M’aiq.”

“It’s just gibberish,” Ralof says.

Not quite. This tells me a lot, though I’m not yet sure what exactly. At the very least I know now I’m not the only ‘subject’ that ever existed, the lone beacon of true consciousness drifting in a vast ocean of simulated personhood. Are such NPCs perhaps a sort of blank that an outside consciousness can be inserted into, like whatever was there in my place before I woke up in that fateful cart?

There is much I want to ask, but I have to phrase it in a way that won’t be too suspicious to Ralof. “M’aiq, who made you the way you are?”

“A curious question. M’aiq was made by the same hand as everyone else, although not from the same cloth.”

I frown as I contemplate this apparently useless answer. It doesn’t tell me much except that there is a single entity or group responsible for creating all of this. I still contemplate my next question when Ralof usurps my role as interrogator. “What are you made from then?”

"M'aiq is tired now. Go bother somebody else."

I curse inwardly. Finally I found a way to gain some answers but just like in the game the number of interactions with M’aiq the Liar is limited. It turns out a futile effort to get anything more out of him after that, much as I try. The Khajiit just wanders off and when addressed repeats two stock lines. In the end I have to give up the effort and we let him trudge off. The whole encounter probably raised more questions than it answered, though much different ones for me than for Ralof. He is clearly perturbed by what he just witnessed, but in the end, he can do even less about it than I can and we are left with no choice but to refocus our minds on other matters.

The roadway slowly widens beneath our step as we leave the cover of the trees and descend into the vast plains surrounding Whiterun. There is a bustle of activity on the main road, carts, travelers, workers and a large number of guards trying to keep order. There are easily more people on the streets right now than the game had for all of Whiterun. The guardsmen in their yellow tabards over scale armour frantically try to keep the arguing civilians in line, each of them surrounded by three or more travelers all talking at once.

“I guess the dragon was seen from here too and they closed the gate down,” I casually lie. My assessment of course involves no guesswork.

In the end we manage to flag down a guard and tell her we bring news of the attack at Helgen. After briefly conversing with her superior she is directed to escort us into the city. The outraged glare of the less privileged travelers follows us on every step of the way and I immediately hear the complaints intensify in the wake of our passing. I scan the landscape to the left of our path but there are neither Companions nor giant to be seen; the window of opportunity to witness their fight must be on the scale of a few minutes at best, then an indeterminate amount of time afterwards for the body to be cleared away. I idly wonder who handles such work. It must be a great though unsung effort to dispose of such a large and heavy cargo. The body probably needs to be dismembered to be transported at all.

Well-worn cobblestone ascends the bluff on which Whiterun rests and leads us into the city proper, the mighty gate slamming shut behind us with a definitive clap. I am greeted by the clang of hammer meeting anvil as I see the familiar structure of Warmaiden’s on the right hand side immediately past the entrance to the city, but the rest of the sight before me is far more alien. Numerous dwellings of bare timber stand arrayed irregularly on the lowest level of Whiterun, some of them leaning on each other like a row of crooked teeth. Stone is scant save for the fortifications and the foundations below the buildings with The Bannered Mare the largest of them, its size dwarfed by the distance along the straight path ahead. This actually deserves to be called a city and I can’t even yet see the limits of its lowest level, the stairs leading up to the residential section lost behind a bend in the road. I can see crafters, coachmen, peddlers, beggars and shoppers all going about their business filling the city with a bustle of activity and the indistinct chatter of many voices giving air to their thoughts. I contemplate whether the dragon sighting has caused more or fewer people to take to the streets. It is hard for me to tell whether the city should be more or less active outside the current circumstances.

Ralof is still talking to one of the guards so I take the opportunity to approach the woman who was hammering away at a length of metal glowing red hot that might with time and effort become a sword and is now being thrust back into the blazing ring of coals to raise its temperature again. “Um, excuse me…”

She turns around. Her auburn hair is tied back in a ponytail but a few loose strands fall over the cheeks of a face that is undeniably beautiful even with the soot of her handiwork darkening her features. I suddenly wonder whether unattractive women even exist in this world; is stuff like pimples, obesity and rotten teeth even a thing around here? It certainly wasn’t in the game. At least the female outfits were rather sensible, no stripperific chainmail bikinis to be found here.

“Can I help you?”

Damn. I let myself drift away. “Yes, sorry. I wonder, do you have… crossbows?” I guess my embarrassment will be complete if I ask her for something that doesn’t exist. As if gawking at her wasn’t bad enough.

But thankfully this accurst simulation has mercy on me. “Yes we do. I only make the metal parts myself but we have a selection of crossbows inside if you want to take a look.”

I close my eyes and smile in relief. Despite everything some things seem to go the right way. “I would love to, but we have to put that off for later I’m afraid. I have to bring news from Helgen up to Dragonsreach.”

“Oh.” She pauses for a moment as an idea takes hold. “Well, if you’re going up there anyway…”

Excellent. Triggering her to hand me the greatsword she made for Jarl Balgruuf was the very reason I talked to her right away instead of later when the more immediate business was taken care of. The hundreds of mind-numbing fetch quests were just about the least exciting part of playing Skyrim, but if it isn’t a detour anyway I might as well make a few quick coins. Plus, putting myself in the good graces of a skilled smith and the steward of Whiterun could well be useful somewhere down the line.

I rejoin Ralof one temporary weapon richer, the cloth-wrapped blade slung over my back. He gently elbows me in the side and gives me a conspiratorial look while he leads the way, presumably towards the stairs leading upward. “So Reinhardson, I guess brunettes are your thing huh?”

I give him a puzzled look. “Sorry, what?”

“Come now, I’ve seen how you looked at her.” He chuckles lightly. “And from what you said you were clearly taken in by Camilla’s beauty as well.”

“It’s not like that,” I sputter quickly. Too quickly. I pause to take a deep breath so my tongue doesn’t charge ahead of my brain. “I was just caught off-guard is all. Didn’t expect that kind of craft attracts…” I hastily turn my shoulder so I don’t collide with a stocky Nord walking the opposite way in an aggressive stride. He stops and folds his arms in front of him as he gives me a challenging look.

“Gray-Mane, or Battle-Born?” Ah, this guy. Well, it is an easy guess which side the blond man glaring daggers at me is on given his choice of clothing. Red cloth under brown leather, the garb of the Imperial legion. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Ralof tense, his hand instinctively going to his belt within easy reach of an ax no stranger to loyalist blood. But that’s not the kind of fight I am looking for in the middle of the streets.

“Actually, have you ever given any thought to merging the clans with intermarriage so you can bury that conflict? Battle-Mane even sounds like a great name! Though Gray-Born less so, makes it sound like you’re sickly, or a Dunmer I guess.”

The Nord gives me an incredulous look and his facial muscles go through a multitude of configurations as he searches for the appropriate response but is found wanting. Finally, he turns on his heels with an indignant huff and stalks off.

Ralof looks after him for a few moments until he can no longer hold it in and bursts out laughing. “That was glorious! Shut the brash fool up better than a fist to the face ever could. Not that I wasn’t tempted…”

He leads me up the granite stairs into the city’s residential section – the Wind District, as Ralof informs me – that also is home to Whiterun’s temples and the mead hall of Jorrvaskr far away on the opposite side of the city but still clearly visible thanks to its prodigious size with the Skyforge throning above it, the stone likeness of a bird spreading its wings protectively over the ancient site. We pass through a round plaza with the Gildergreen at its center, standing bare and naked as a mere shadow of its former majesty. Much as I’d like to see it return to full bloom I doubt I will ever be able to spare the time for this sidequest, but then again — do I have to? The world isn’t static, I am not the lone soul able to affect change and some other hero or gloryhound might take up the task. For all I know I might find the first leaves sprouting again from the Gildergreen the next time I set foot in Whiterun.

More stairs lead up to the entrance of Dragonsreach, step after step of railing-less ascent. This place must be a nightmare both to besiege and to supply. I don’t envy the quartermaster for his daily tasks, and the logistics of bringing up larger pieces of furniture must be quite challenging. Perhaps they have a sort of crane somewhere in the back.

Once we reach the top I spare a moment to marvel at the view, the high vantage point allowing the eyes to roam miles and miles into the distance. To the south-east the Throat of the World rises up into the sky, a primordial giant wrapped in a protective cloak of white mist. Mount Olympus must have instilled this kind of awe in the ancient Greeks. But it isn’t gods who await me at the summit. It is the Graybeards — and their secret overlord, Paarthurnax.

The man-made structure of Dragonsreach is no less impressive though. The expansive, long hall with the high ceiling sloping to a line down the middle gives it the air of a church, with the Jarl’s throne taking the place of the altar. I have never been in a wooden building anywhere close to this size, stone walls giving way to fair timber after several men’s length. Irileth comes to challenge us and after stating our purpose we are brought before the seated Jarl to give our report. Ralof greets him with a balled fist on his chest and an inclination of his head, a gesture I quickly mimic. The rules of decorum around nobility are not to be taken lightly.

Our tale of wings black as night throwing their shadow on Helgen before the town was consumed by fire raining down from the sky draws looks of disbelief, shock and horror. Dark are their faces and their thoughts and a breathless silence lingers, but then the spell is broken and the Jarl rises to issue his commands, ordering Irileth to lead a detachment of guards to Riverwood as soon as the council concludes. Holy hell, that voice. Guttural and raspy, like one would expect from a man after a lifetime of heavy smoking. The way he speaks commands attention and respect. I have to stop myself from taking an instinctive step back when his gaze returns to us.

“So Ulfric escaped in the commotion. You are not wearing Imperial colours, I take it you were with him?”

“I was and am, Jarl Balgruuf,” Ralof answers. “But Reinhardson here wasn’t, he just had the misfortune of being close by when our party was ambushed.”

The Jarl’s focus shifts and he scrutinizes me in the void left after Ralof’s proclamation. I suspect he prefers a neutral source to a declared Stormcloak. “You saw the destruction. How bad was it?”

“Tremendous, Jarl Balgruuf. We fled underground quickly, but even in that short time we saw many fortifications torn down, thick stone faring no better than wood. The effects of the dragon’s onslaught could be felt even far away, collapsing corridors deep in the keep’s belly.”

The Jarl, having returned to his seat, rubs his chin. “And the defenders?”

“Little to no discernible effect. Spells and arrows might do something, but closing into melee seemed a fool’s errand and as long as the dragon rules the sky he can pick his engagements. Ballistas would be good if you have them, otherwise perhaps harpoons or chains to restrict its mobility. For close combat spears and pikes might be best. And perhaps hand out some potions of fire resistance to the guards. It likely won’t be enough to take a full blast of dragonfire, but every little bit helps.”

Balgruuf turns to the man at his right side. Proventus Avenicci, a balding Imperial with a drawn out face and perpetual frown likely owed to the current circumstances. I wouldn’t recall his name if not for the conversation with his daughter earlier. Skyrim had enough characters to make even George R. R. Martin weep.

I guess I will never get to finish these books. Oh well, I had already accepted as much even before my world got turned upside down.

“Whaling with harpoon in hand, that takes me back. It has been too many years. What about you Proventus, ever tried it?”

“I’m afraid that is a Nord custom I never had the chance to partake in, my Jarl.”

“Ah. A shame, really,” Balgruuf says with a sigh. “Remind me to take you along sometime once Skyrim is no longer in danger of burning down around us. Well, some potions might be a good idea, but I’ll have to consult Farengar to figure out what quantities can feasibly be procured…”

“Jarl Balgruuf,” Ralof says. “Our nearest camp is no further from Riverwood than Whiterun is. If you ask Jarl Ulfric for aid against this threat endangering all of us I’m sure he would join in protecting your people…”

Bad move Ralof. Far too much. Far too soon.

My assessment is quickly confirmed when the stone-faced Jarl leans forward and addresses Ralof in a deceptively calm voice. “And are you then an official envoy vested with the power to negotiate on your liege’s behalf?”

My companion seems to have noticed his mistake. “No Jarl Balgruuf, I just thought—”

“Enough!” The thunderclap of the Jarl’s imperious voice sweeps through the hall. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the acoustics of the room were deliberately set up to give power to the one speaking from the ruler’s dais. “You have done a great service to us so I will forgive your impertinence, but I will not negotiate the protection of my Hold with an overeager footman. Now begone.”

“Jarl Balgruuf, if I may,” I interject, hoping to somehow salvage the situation. “Ralof of Riverwood isn’t just a servant of Jarl Ulfric but also a subject of your Hold. I ask you, let him speak, not as a Stormcloak but as a man who seeks to safeguard his home and family.”

“Ralof… of Riverwood.” Balgruuf’s piercing gaze softens. “Does he speak truly?”

“Yes Jarl Balgruuf,” he answers with regained confidence. “I follow the Stormcloak banner to fight for all of Skyrim, but even more so I wish for the safety and happiness of my sister Gerdur, my dear nephew Frodnar and the friends I left behind. The boy deserves to grow up in a peaceful and prosperous realm just like I did, free from oppression and persecution for the beliefs he holds dear.”

“Gerdur. She runs the mill, doesn’t she.” The Jarl’s lips curl up in amusement at the memory taking hold of him. “A fierce woman. I think the poor tax collector who tried to scam her was almost relieved when I banished him from my realm.”

Something that is both a smile and a grimace takes shape on Ralof’s face. “That does sound like my sister.”

The Jarl spares a moment to close his eyes and chuckle before continuing. “Well, I guess I have misjudged you, Ralof of Riverwood. Your concern for your family does you credit. Rest assured that the safety of all the people of my Hold is dear to me and if there is more protection I can offer to Riverwood I will do so without hesitation.”

“I thank you deeply, Jarl Balgruuf,” Ralof says with a deep bow that doesn’t quite manage to hide his sigh of relief.

“Jarl Balgruuf, there is another matter you should be informed of,” I say as I take off my bag to retrieve my precious cargo. “At the Talos shrine west of Riverwood we came upon the site of a massacre, four slaughtered worshipers along with the body of their killer, a Thalmor agent wearing the robes I bring before you.” I take a few steps forward and place the folded Thalmor wear on the steps leading up to the Jarl’s throne along with a folded piece of paper. “He carried written orders instructing him to root out this shrine. The document bears the seal and signature of Elenwen.”

A tense silence claims the hall, the soft creaking of the fire in our back the only sound filling the void. The anger Balgruuf showed before is but a shadow of the cold fury gouged into his features now by a chisel of purest ice. The wooden armrest of his throne groans under his vise-like grip and he speaks but a single word. “Proventus.”

The steward approaches to inspect the offered document. “The seal looks authentic. I think we have a contract bearing her name to compare the signature with.”

“Do it.”

The man hurries off up the stairs in the back. Irileth comes forward to likewise inspect our offerings. “The robes are definitely authentic. I can’t speak as to the document, though it only orders to investigate the shrine and prove its existence by documents or prisoners, but there is no order to take more forceful measures.”

She is sharp. I had hoped this detail would remain unnoticed for now. The document is no smoking gun; the Thalmor can always claim a lone agent got overeager, or even insinuate the Talos faithful resisted lawful arrest and started the fight.

“And the bodies?” the Jarl asks.

“My sister was to organize a party to retrieve them, Jarl Balgruuf. They should have been brought to Riverwood by now.”

The Jarl nods. “Irileth, before you leave visit the temples to bring a priest along so he can speak the rites. Also see to it that the bodies are identified. If they left family behind I want to make sure they are not left wanting.”

“Yes my Jarl.”

I ruefully remember the civil war questline when I helped the Stormcloaks conquer Whiterun. Jarl Balgruuf might be the most genuinely good person in a position of power in the game — and now reality, or what presently goes for it. I will never forgive Ulfric if he forces me to strike him down. This man deserves better, and the people under his rule deserve no lesser.

We soon are dismissed from the Jarl’s presence, though I’m allowed to stay behind to do business with the court wizard Farengar. Ralof and I clasp forearms in lieu of a handshake. “You’re coming along to Windhelm, right? Let’s meet at the Bannered Mare later on. I’ll see if I can get us transport.”

Damn. I should have anticipated this. That Redguard woman is at the Bannered Mare and if Ralof runs into her he might end up trying to help her. That’s not a quest I feel confident about tackling right now. “Sure that’s the best place? There’s got to be other inns too.”

“Trust me, it’s good, and the prices are decent,” he says with a laugh. “You can’t miss it, just follow the main road from the gate. See you later Reinhardson.”

I give a short wave, not having succeeded in changing his choice of locale. There was no good argument I could offer on the fly. I’ll just have to see how things develop.

Farengar has been instructed to pay a fair market price for the robes in reward for our efforts, which turns out to be a good amount of money. Forty Septims may not sound like much, but with the introduction of smaller denominations in silver and copper that seems to be about the equivalent of four hundred Septims in the game. Still, buying the spell tome for Telekinesis would almost bankrupt me, and that’s without giving Ralof his fair share of our bounty.

But Farengar, as it turns out, wants to dissuade me from my plans anyway. “The Telekinesis spell is unsuited to a novice such as you, even if miraculously you manage to cast it you would burn through your meager magicka reserves in seconds. If you’re interested in the Alteration school you should start with a simpler spell and work your way up.” He keeps the hood of his dark purple robes up, giving me only a shrouded look at his face framed by thick sideburns.

“Really? I wasn’t expecting that just moving objects around would be so much more taxing than creating fire and lightning from thin air.” I mull this roadblock over for some seconds. “What would then be a suitable Alteration spell for a beginner?”

“Candlelight and Oakflesh are a good starting point. Once you’ve mastered them and deepened your understanding with rigorous practice you can move up, though it’s better to go to conceptually familiar spells first, Magelight and Stoneflesh namely.”

I shrug. “Alright. I’ll take them both.” This is inconvenient, I had no idea Telekinesis is such an advanced spell. But even if I end up abandoning my old plans I should benefit greatly from both Oakflesh and Candlelight. “This might be a stupid question, but I’ve been wondering, what would happen if someone were to wear say two magical hoods at the same time?”

Farengar gives me a weird look I’m not sure how to interpret, but it certainly isn’t benevolent. “What would happen to a warrior who tries to wield two swords in the same hand?”

“Uh… They would get in the way of each other, it would be very impractical and ineffective.”

“Really? They are lucky then.” He smirks in the shadow of his hood. “At least their swords don’t explode, fuse into their hand or any number of other interesting effects of varying unpleasantness.”

Well, I guess that solves that particular issue. Though he assures me there is no problem in wearing mundane armour along with magical robes, although I can see the very idea is distasteful to him. I end up delivering his frost salts to Arcadia who also pays me decently for some of my collected Frostbite venom. The Dragonstone in Bleak Falls Barrow, though, doesn’t come up once even when I nudge Farengar to talk about the reappearance of dragons. Either this is a task the Jarl doesn’t trust us with or the wizard needs more time to progress on his research. It hasn’t even been two days yet after all.

Well, if they make someone else do it I won’t mind. I don’t need to personally retrieve the Dragonstone, I just need a clear path to the Word Wall next to it. Let some other sucker get tossed around by the guardian’s Fus Ro Dah.

I soon find myself back at Warmaiden’s to inspect the crossbows inside the shop. The prods are made from steel and to my pleasant surprise feature an integrated reloading mechanism: a lever mounted on the wooden tiller allowing the string to be cocked with a much lessened effort of strength. I am somewhat surprised the crossbow also has a steel ring protruding on the front. The purpose of these was I believe to fix the weapon with your foot while pulling the string back, but with the lever in place that seems somewhat redundant unless you go to a draw strength that requires both aids.

I soon find a crossbow I consider suitable and the intricate pattern of interlacing lines on the steel parts gives it a nice touch, though there is one simple enough modification lacking. “Could you add something like a sword handle here? That would give me a much better grip with my left hand while I cock the lever with my right.” I may lack firearms experience, but from what I can tell a forward grip should be advantageous.

“Hm, that should be easy enough work. Just need to wrap a thin sheet of steel around and bolt it so the strain is distributed. You’re leaving tomorrow morning, right? I’ll have it done by then.”

“Excellent.” I smile and let my eyes roam over the weapon racks. “Those axes look good too. I might bring another customer along with me tomorrow.”

Adrianne laughs. “That’s the best kind of customer, the one who brings another one with him.”

“Well, as long as you don’t end up in an infinite recursion…”

My comment puzzles her, which really is no surprise. Should have just kept my mouth shut. “Sorry, what?”

“Nevermind, just a stupid joke. Say, can you make something like this?” I show her the sketch I had made during our night’s rest, a pyramid formed by four lengths of metal meeting in the middle, giving the resulting structure three feet and a top pointing straight up. All of them ending in a sharp point. Caltrops.

Yeah, sorry about that bandits and assorted other befooted hostiles. I don’t intend to play fair.

She inspects my sketch with avid curiosity. “Never seen something like this but I can guess what it’s for. That’s really nasty. How large are they supposed to be?”

“About this or thereabouts.” I indicate with my hand. “Maybe, I don’t know, perhaps a hundred in a bag to spread them over an area.”

“Well, it should be easy enough though mind-numbing work to forge these from nails of appropriate size. I’d ask around in the blacksmiths section.”

It should come as no surprise that a city of Whiterun’s size and prominence is home to more than two smiths, both of them specializing in weapons and armour. They ask for two Septims to make it a rush order, which I haggle down to one Septim eight silver but it still seems like a high price; I could almost get a decent sword for that. By the way, the conversion between gold, silver and copper isn’t one to ten but one to twelve which fills me with a quiet, impotent rage.

I finally find my way to the Bannered Mare, eager for my first warm meal since supper back in Riverwood. The common room has the genuine feel of a busy tavern; not just four or five people sitting around a smoldering fire but a raucous, agitated crowd.

I hear the reason for the commotion before I can see it. A crowd of cheering onlookers forms a ring around a brawl between a tall woman and my personal Stormcloak. Did Ralof seriously trigger that quest while I was out shopping? Goodness, next thing he’ll probably hand me a bounty letter for some bandit leader he got from the innkeeper.

They seem to have gone at it for some time, their clothes damp with sweat and having traded a split lip for a bloodied nose respectively. I keep watching until their duel comes to a conclusion when Ralof tries to trap his opponent’s right arm only for her to rush in and slam her other elbow into the side of his chin. He goes down hard and raises his hands in surrender. I see multiple people cheer or groan as betting money switches ownership.

“Good fight,” the victorious woman says as she offers her arm and pulls Ralof back to his feet. “If you drink as well as you punch I might just apologize for calling you a softgut.”

“We’ll see about that. I could definitely use a drink right now but if we go at the cups as fiercely as at each other I might just end up a beggar.” He waves me over as he wipes the blood from his nose. “Oi, Reinhardson, there you are! Sorry, I lost a bit of money there. This is Uthgerd the Unbroken. You want my advice, be nice to her and don’t drink milk in her presence or she might end up redecorating your face.”

I actually like milk, almost every morning during breakfast. But I assume the ‘milkdrinker’ insult is more meant to disparage people who avoid alcohol than a general opposition to milk.

I should introduce the White Russian to the Nords, it would blow their minds.

“Pleased to meet you. Call me Ragnar. Don’t worry about the money Ralof, unless you bet a house against her we should be good.” A slight exaggeration of course. “Well, to the victor go the spoils. How much do we owe you, Uthgerd?”

The woman makes me think of how Brienne of Tarth was described in the books. Tall and broad of shoulder, the features of her face rough and coarse with too wide a nose in the center that has more than once yielded under the forceful impact of fist or weapon. Only her messy tangle of hair is a light brown the colour of a birch tree's wood instead of blond. I guess my question of whether only attractive women exist here has been answered. But to be fair, boxing really isn’t the right occupation for someone who aspires to untarnished beauty.

“Well, you’re taking it in stride Ragnar. I half expected I’d have to beat it out of you too when your friend told me his companion will show up later with the coin.” She gives Ralof a wicked smile. “It almost felt like a scam to be honest, but if it was it would be all the more pleasurable to have beaten you up for it.”

“In other words, you would have done it for free,” I say. “Come, you both look like you could use a drink and I have yet to prove to you I’m not a milkdrinker. First round’s on me, that should give us enough time to count out your coin.”

We instead end up spending most of the evening together, swapping tales. Uthgerd has a rough personality to her but the story of our escape from Helgen is like ambrosia to a warrior like her. Ralof as it turns out is a pretty good tale weaver, especially aided with the experience of having told it before to his sister’s family and the rising effects of inebriation. I’m mostly preoccupied with some hopefully well-earned food, roasted goat in a creamy mushroom sauce with plenty of bread and two baked potatoes on the side. I’ve never been one to eat meat without something else to go along and it helps with the alcohol too. Mead is just such a lovely liquor. The brandy Uthgerd challenges us to is much rougher, though the warmth spreading through my chest afterward is quite pleasant.

Uthgerd questions me how I ended up so effectively holding down a stronger and better trained man and I describe to her the Half Nelson I used — without invoking the term of course — as well as the Full Nelson I’d rather have employed if my other arm wasn’t occupied. The apparently unnamed hold is familiar to her and she praises me for knowing a thing or two about grappling despite my green-ness. Praise, of course, from her mouth is more along the lines of ‘at least there’s one aspect of fighting where you’re not an overgrown toddler.’

She parts after our thoroughly drunken selves felt the overwhelming urge to share an apple pie between us and we return to our planning. “Looks like they’re easing up on the lockdown. I found a caravan going for Windhelm at the tenth hour and signed us up as guards. Pay isn’t too impressive, but there’s a big tent to sleep in when not out on watch and they’ll make warm food every evening.”

I mull this over for some seconds. “Didn’t you want to catch up to Jarl Ulfric? A caravan with carts will travel rather slowly and Ulfric might not stick to the main roads.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been thinking…” I blink several times in rapid succession. Is that the first time anyone but me has said ‘yeah’? He probably picked it up from me. I really ought to be careful with slang and colloquial terms, though I think ‘yeah’ isn’t all that modern. “We probably hit the shortest route from Helgen to the main roads so Jarl Ulfric might well be behind us. I figure we can just let him catch up to us instead. He’ll probably requisition horses somewhere along the way.”

“Ah, requisition. That’s a fancy way to say ‘to take without compensation’. Or, in other words, stealing.”

“Uh… Yes, kind of.” Ralof visibly falters. “But Jarl Ulfric is a just man, he will see to it that the owner is compensated adequately, even if immediate payment is not possible.”

“Well, he better,” I say with a grin. “Wouldn’t go over well with Balgruuf if some teary-eyed farmer comes to his hall and tells him that Jarl Ulfric personally stole the horses he needs for his livelihood.”

“And what does this farmer need horses for?”

“ _I_ don’t know. Till the soil come spring?” I make an exaggerated shrug. “Now come, cut me another piece of that pie. And don’t be skimpy, I very much noticed how big your last one was.”


	3. Molotov, Baby Don't Hurt Me

"Good morning, milkdrinker,” Ralof greets me with an insolent smirk that would likely earn him a fist to the face from anyone not his friend.

“ _Excuse_ me. I had already taken my fair share of mead. And milk just goes way better with pie.”

He shakes his head as he sits down. “I still can’t believe Uthgerd let you get away with it.”

“Probably because I handled that brandy way better than you did.”

He winces. “I have no idea how the two of you could swallow that stuff without coughing.”

Well, Nords may be as resistant to alcohol as they are to the cold of winter, but it seems they are rather unused to hard liquor. Just mead and wine. I’ll have to keep that in mind if it ever comes to a drinking contest. Wasn’t there a quest like that, or am I perhaps mixing things up with the Witcher games?

I can’t help but notice my companion feels uncomfortable with his dress ever since exchanging his Stormcloak blue for a yellow-tinted green, always tugging at his clothes or shifting the fibula left or right as if it were the fit and not the colour causing the discomfort. They are a bit brighter than my own cloak which I’m tempted to describe as Goblin Green. What a waste, finally making progress in painting my tabletop miniatures and then never getting to play with them. Well, in my list of problems this particular one likely doesn’t even break into the Top 100.

We still have some time left to gather supplies for the upcoming journey. Adrianne has finished the modification of my crossbow and I eagerly give it a test. Stock pressed hard against my shoulder, left hand on the added forward grip to hold it steady, then with my right pull back the lever to cock the weapon. It hits the right spot, not so difficult it would hamper me significantly in battle but not so easy the sacrifice in pull strength would diminish the projectile’s penetration more than necessary either. I sight down where the bolt would be, the handle of the lever giving me an oblong window to look through. Putting my hand on the trigger I fire, then repeat the entire process a few more times. This is a well-made weapon. Though I should watch my vocabulary, ‘fire’ was only used after the introduction of, well, firearms. For bows the command was ‘loose’. I’m not entirely sure it’s the same for crossbows.

“Excellent work. I’m glad you managed to finish it on such short order.”

“Well, you saved me a lot of time when bringing that sword up to Dragonsreach. I think even with the current crisis father would insist on having supper with me and ask when he can expect grandchildren.” The steward of Whiterun sounds more like the stereotypical grandmother from her telling. Who knew.

Ralof meanwhile is examining the axes and seems to have found one that struck his interest. “What kind of wood is this? It’s heavy. I know a thing or two about the native trees and this isn’t one of them.”

I take a look at the object in his hand. Polished steel head with an engraved animal motif, two snakes entwined with each other forming a Celtic knot. The wood though is unlike anything I have seen before, reddish brown broken up by a fine pattern of darker brown in long but narrow patches that are jagged around the edges.

“You’re quite right. This is snakewood, imported from Elsweyr. A very dense wood that comes through very rarely so I wanted to do something special with it. I’m quite confident this is one of my better works.”

Ralof gives it a probing swing. “I like it. It’s still top-heavy but the wood evens out the weight distribution a little. Quite comfortable.” He carefully runs a finger along the side of the edge. “The metalwork is excellent. I think I’ll take it.”

I have to wonder about weapon qualities. In the game they always come in base quality but you can then spend additional metal to improve them, which feels… weird. Especially since you’re the only one who can ever do that, no matter how much you see a smith toiling away at the grindstone. No, I rather think this steel ax is actually better than another steel ax forged with less skill and effort than the eponymous Warmaiden put in here.

My Stormcloak companion leaves with a happy smile, now sporting two axes at his belt. He seems to be committed to the dual-wielding, though he still keeps the shield from Helgen’s torture chamber slung over his back along with a pair of barbed javelins. My eyes wander up as we pass through the busy gate and down the road into the wide open landscape. A dreary sky blots out the warm rays of the sun and holds the promise of rain and misery in the near future.

Our caravan consists of eleven wagons by my count, multiple groups merging into one when the delays caused by the lockdown had them pile up. Their make is uneven, some drawn by a single horse and others by a pair, a few of them open topped but most blessfully offering cover against the elements to merchandise and rider alike. Sixteen sellswords in all accompany the group with an Orc named Bulgor as their leader. The broad, flat-nosed warrior’s skin is closer to brown than green and while I have no idea how he came to claim leadership I certainly have no intention of questioning it. Rather, I cherish the opportunity to lie down and read while still making steady progress on the road.

I’m torn between the spell tomes in my possession. Sparks is the one I can put off for now; a second elemental attack is no pressing need. Candlelight is bound to be useful, especially if the myriad dungeons dotting Skyrim’s landscape aren’t so conveniently lighted. Glowing mushrooms, fair enough. But who is supposed to maintain all those torches and braziers in these sealed crypts, the draugr?

But in the end it is Oakskin I settle on. A dearth of light can always be handled by torch or lantern and magicka is much scarcer than in the game. It seems to take me about five hours to fully regenerate when expending all my magic, though rest speeds the process up significantly. I have to think of my magic like a muscle, growing and getting stronger with consistent use. Even with the far slower recovery I can burn through my magicka pool half a dozen times per day and after fair warning the first time the other travelers soon get used to the occasional burst of flame shooting out of my cart. While doing so I also try to tune my fine control, to affect a narrower or wider area, reduce the intensity to later on aid me in mundane tasks like heating water or lighting a candle. But progress on that front is slow and will require much more practice.

But the spell tome is no lesser challenge. At first, I am surprised to see some variance in the script; perhaps the perfect regularity in Elenwen’s missive is a Thalmor peculiarity. I can now confirm Skyrim’s bibliology knows abbreviation both by contraction and suspension, ‘mga’ for magicka and ‘alt’ for Alteration respectively. Both with a small circle above to mark them as an abbreviation instead of the line I am used to from medieval scripts. Though I have seen that before somewhere, but it’s not like I can check my notes. And the bigger issue is what might be called the script’s lack of persistence; whenever I have properly read a sentence the ink just burns away with a heatless fire. At first I was concerned I could lose something vital when reading the tome without the utmost concentration, but rather it seems the contained information is imprinted directly onto my memory when the book is read with due focus. The process is quite taxing on the mind and I have to take regular breaks to just relax or do some lighter reading. One of the merchants lent me the third volume of History of the Empire in exchange for heating up some water — on the open road instead of in the cart because I do not yet trust myself to not set something on fire when aiming for anything but the wide open air. It might not qualify as light reading per se, but I just need to understand the outlines of this world’s history; it’s not necessary for me to memorize particulars about the reign of long-dead Emperors. I still have the Book of the Dragonborn, but, given the subject matter, I decide this one has to be studied with utmost attention so I’ll put that off until I am through with the spell tome.

The company is about what one would expect from sellswords: boisterous, rough, crude, but still filled with camaraderie and laughter. There is some light mockery for my constant reading but it remains mostly in jest. The merchants and guards don’t mingle much, feeling almost segregated at times. I was worried my spellwork would sow distrust given the Nord attitude towards magic, but we’re a mixed company with another Orc beside the leader, two Imperials, a Redguard and a close-mouthed archer who betrays nothing about himself but his name, and even the natives treat me as one of their own. Ralof confides in me that it is because I still prominently wear armour and weapon instead of robes, marking me as a warrior who also employs some magic in battle instead of a mage who consciously sets himself apart. It seems my guess was right that a wizard’s lack of armour is cultural; it serves as a way to deliberately create a divide between themselves and the less refined people who live off the strength of their arms instead of the strength of their minds.

Magic seems the most feasible way for me to break this world apart. The Main Simulation had no discernible flaws, so any exploitable elements are bound to be the things added in the ‘experimental’ simulation: spells, Thu’um, enchanting, alchemy. Whatever it is, infinite loops, wonky interactions between the different spheres of the supernatural, I will find it.

On the fifth day we press on through the oppressive veil of morning’s mist until a silhouette in the distance pierces through the gloom. Dark and slender a foreboding tower climbs out of the haze like an erect fist, firelight spilling through a gap in the desolate structure to give it a cyclopean eye. On its left, a narrow path of stone bridges the water to the much sparser remains of a second tower likewise illuminated. So the ruinous fortification is indeed occupied. I know the myriad of caves and mines to be infested with bandits, which in the midst of civil war might be considered believable, but this one still stands out. Even with the local powers occupied it is brazen to take over one of the main roads of the land. The crumbling towers should offer little respite against the forces the Holds can bring to bear.

Our caravan soon comes to a halt and we sit in uncertain wait under the smothering blanket of slowly clearing fog. I spend my time as per usual until Ralof comes to update me on the situation. “Bandits ahead in the old Valtheim Towers. They’re demanding a toll for our passing. The merchants want them cleared out but Bulgor refuses. Defending the caravan from attack is one thing, storming a fortified tower quite another.”

“Well, I’d say he’s right about that. How can bandits take control of one of the main roads anyway? Whiterun isn’t even participating in the war, they should easily have the manpower to remove them.”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing. Someone suggested they might have moved in after the dragon sighting, expecting the Jarl will have more important matters on his hands.” That actually feels like a reasonable enough explanation to me. “And the bridge spanning the White River gives them an easy escape from any assault they can’t hold against. Unless a permanent garrison is placed there they can just return after the Jarl’s troops move off.”

“So what now?”

“We wait.” Ralof settles in beside me. “They’re negotiating the price. Either the merchants have to pay the bandits off, or they offer us enough coin to risk our necks.”

It wouldn’t be an easy fight, having to wade through archer fire from an elevated position and then fighting our way up a narrow tower. I am yet untested with my crossbow; I’ve spent some time each evening aiming at a wicker basket and sacrificed two bolts by shooting them over the river to get a better feel for the projectile’s velocity and drop with distance. But a moving target with the benefit of cover is a quite different experience. Especially while taking return fire myself. I wonder about the strength of my Stormcloak cuirass. The chain mail is iron instead of steel and not riveted, so a piercing attack like an arrow might well penetrate. The Imperial armour set was better than the Stormcloak one in the game. And yet it is just leather. That shouldn’t make for a terribly effective armour, even cuir bouilli probably fares worse than the humble chain shirt. Of course, that is assuming that the physics at work function the same way I know them to, which I shouldn’t take for granted. The stronger materials dealt, what, two times as much damage as iron and steel, perhaps more? Even if they’re more durable than steel and can thus hold a finer edge without rolling or chipping, you soon get diminishing returns from a weapon’s hardness. Perhaps a Daedric sword will just slice right through plate with little care for Main Simulation physics’ objection.

It takes another half an hour until our group of mercenaries convenes, save for the silent one who is on lookout.

“So what’s the verdict chief?”

Bulgor sits down to join our circle. “Eight Septims for each of us. Much more than that and it would be cheaper to just pay the bandits off.”

A displeased murmur goes through the group. “That may be more than twice what we get for the entire journey, but still rather little considering the risk. Not even enough to replace my shield if it gets wrecked.”

“That’s why I had them sweeten the deal,” Bulgor says with a smirk that exposes the yellowed teeth between his protruding tusks. “We get all the bandits have, and anything we don’t claim the merchants will take off our hands at three quarters market price.”

One of the Nords whistles appreciatively; Jolgeir, I think. I haven’t talked to him much. “They must have taken both goods and gold off other travelers. This could turn out a decent haul, even divided between sixteen people.”

“Or however many of us survive.” The swarthy Imperial evidently is less convinced of the proposition at hand. “How many of them are there anyway?”

“They claim they are twenty so I expect about half as many. Perhaps a dozen.”

“So we barely outnumber them and they have a fortified position to negate even that.”

I decide to join the conversation at this point. “It all depends on whether we have a feasible plan of attack. Is there an earlier crossing we can reach? A two-pronged assault would be good, and on the other side of the river they have no height advantage.”

Tostig, who seems the most knowledgeable about the local terrain, shakes his head. “Too far off. This is the only crossing within half a day or more in either direction.”

“We could unbuckle some of the horses, that gets us there quickly enough,” Jolgeir suggests.

“To the crossing, yes. But the terrain on the other side is unsuited for horseback so it’s still a long walk.”

“The cliffs to our right then. If we get some archers up there we can counter their arrows from above with our own.”

That idea seems good to me. “I have a rope and grappling hook to help make the climb.”

The debate lasts a while longer and we agree to brave the assault, four archers on top and the rest of us advancing in a shield wall to reach the cover of the tower. I am to join the latter group to force the defenders back with my flames.

“Here, take this.” I hand out three glass bottles. “Toss that against one of the bandits before I hit them.”

Ralof complies without question but the others look at the corked containers skeptically. “What’s this?”

“Lamp oil.” Skyrim, meet the Molotov cocktail.

I did say I don’t intend to play fair.

Jolgeir’s face blanches as his mind goes through what the result of this would look like. “That’s evil, man.”

I shrug. “So is banditry. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”

“Huh?”

“What goes around comes around,” Bulgor supplies. “I have no problem with it. Just avoid throwing it at a shielded fighter.”

Interesting to see which sayings made it into the language of this world and which ones didn’t. Perhaps I’ll muse on this a while longer if I survive the coming hour.

The time soon comes when we receive a signal from the archers on the cliff-side. Shields locked, we advance. Our guard is uneven in make, most of them round but others kite-shaped, wood and iron standing next to hide and even Dwarven metal in one case. The rain of arrows starts pattering against our defenses, sporadic at first but then getting more insistent as we close the distance, providing an intensifying drumbeat to accompany the escalating battle. Our cliff-side group retaliates and at least one of them strikes true with the struck bandit falling off the bridge. The raging river swallows up his scream and sweeps the man away. The storm of arrows ceases for a moment as the defenders reorient themselves and seek cover against the assault coming from this unexpected angle, but their attack so far has left its mark. Two of our group have fallen away from the advancing shield wall, dead or wounded I can’t say. The Redguard to my left took an arrow to the arm after it pierced her shield, and I myself have one shaft still protruding from the greave on my left leg. The projectile didn’t penetrate far and glanced off the shinbone into the softer flesh at the side. It is a minor wound, but still one I feel with every steady step we take on our advance, and I dare not waste any magicka on it now. I’m just glad my head is better protected thanks to the gratuitously horned helmet worn over the hood I found at the tail-end of the Helgen dungeon.

We reach the vicinity of the tower’s entrance, barricaded by an overturned table. Two spear-wielding men stand ready to skewer anyone trying to force entrance. “Flasks at my signal then shields back up right away,” Bulgor commands as we inch ever closer. “Now!”

Three bottles of purplish liquid take flight at the barricade. One glances off a bandit’s shoulder without breaking, but the others strike true and soak the defenders in their yet unrecognized demise.

“Ragnar!”

I shove my hand through a gap in the shield wall and shower the tower’s entrance in a blanket of flame. Its two defenders erupt in bright balls of fire almost immediately. I quickly pull my hand back to preserve my magicka for the rest of the battle.

“Hooold.” Bulgor watches dispassionately while screams of pain and horror assail our ears. One of the ablaze bandits throws himself to the ground, the other breaks away and spreads chaos among the other defenders behind him. “Charge!”

One after the other we force our way into the narrow confines of the ground floor. Three or four of the disarrayed bandits get slaughtered almost immediately, including the one I set on fire. It had already winked out, Skyrim’s lamp oil burning away almost as fast as a moth straying too close to the candle’s flame. I stop to the right of the entrance to let the others pass and slam the rim of my shield down onto the skull of the other Molotov’ed man. On the third jarring strike his groaning ceases.

We’re now fighting our way up the narrow stairs only giving room to a single warrior and the bandits have rallied. Melee fighters hold the line while archers shoot down on us and without the aid of a shield wall they strike true several times. The ones not on the stairs answer in kind, including Ralof whose javelin pierces the gut of one of them. I bathe the group in fire but I already learned that mere flame, while painful, might blister and burn but not incapacitate or even kill quickly when fielded against unburning armour. Bulgor is at the front and after parrying a strike with his greatsword his left hand reaches forward to grab the iron-clad woman at the collar and shove her to the side. She tumbles into the empty air next to the stairs and her remaining life in measured in seconds with our group controlling the ground floor she plunges into. The next defender immediately takes her place but then a bottle shatters against his body and he falls backward, awkwardly shuffling up the stairs on hands and feet in a mad panic. “Yield. I yield!”

The battle comes to a sudden halt. I can’t help but stare in confusion; I handed out only three flasks of oil. I notice Jolgeir look in my direction with a cheeky smile. He winks when I meet his gaze. Did the madlad just bluff them with a bottle of wine or whatever else he had on hand?

The soaked bandit has managed to retreat and their apparent leader now takes up the front. Plate and pauldrons of gleaming steel cover his chest and shoulders while the bracers and greaves on the extremities leave some of his tattooed skin bare. “Leave now and we let you pass unimpeded. You might win, but not without cost.”

There is a soft scrape of leather on stone as Bulgor shifts his right foot slightly, stance seeming secure and balanced despite his back foot resting on a lower step. “I bet there is a bounty on your head.”

“If there is it was issued by Whiterun and you’re traveling in the opposite direction. Good luck collecting it a month after you kill me. If you kill me.”

The tense stand-off between the shifted roles of predator and prey continues and I consciously have to remind myself to keep breathing. I have already spotted the detail that seals their fate: Bulgor uses a greatsword and so does the bandits’ leader, but his is clad in a shimmering blue aura of enchantment.

“Cut them down!”

Having anticipated the command I pull the trigger of my crossbow and hit one of the remaining bandits square in the chest, the cocked weapon giving me an advantage in reaction time compared to the archers who had to relax on their pull. Despite their leader’s boast what ensues is more massacre than fight. Their will was already broken and they soon break rank only to be shot in the back by our archers up on the cliff. Taking stock after the battle we suffered three dead and many more wounded, four of them serious enough to require potions to pull through. Healing magic is such a game-changer in warfare.

We count nine dead bandits, three or four got away plus the man who fell into the currents of the river. The fight went exceptionally well considering we only had a slight numerical advantage against a well fortified position. Everyone is eagerly collecting the loot to gather it in a pile, sorted into coin, weapons, armour and so on. I keep a look out for the item I expect to be here like in pretty much every dungeon or major structure. There it is. The Black Arrow Volume II, so a skill book for archery in all likelihood. It is thin, looks like four quaterniones in a simple folder of worn leather instead of proper binding. Nothing overtly arcane happens when I start to read it; no ink burning away like with the spell tome, no sudden insights or epiphanies. It seems to be just a plain old book.

Still, our bounty is plentiful. One of the prior victims traversing this road must have transported a cargo of cloth and while the colourful, heavy rolls hold no value to us the merchants pay a good price for them, and will in return make a profit off of our spoils later on. The distribution of loot involved much bargaining and argument but everyone accepted Bulgor’s final verdict when there were multiple claims on the same item and we are left with enough coin for everyone to receive their fair share.

It is a jovial company that leaves a hall of blood and death behind in the wake of their passing. It probably says a lot about this occupation that the loss of three men we joked and laughed with the night before does so little to dampen the mood of the hired swords. Mascius, the one who was most reluctant for us to brave the assault, is among the fallen. Fate is a cruel mistress.

The excitement of battle soon fades and we spend another four days under the monotony of the road before I notice a trio of riders approach from the west in a quick, steady pace. As they draw nearer I see the sun reflect off of the sweat staining the horses’ flanks, betraying the hurry of their masters. I give Ralof a quick bump with my elbow; with nothing better to do he seems to have taken a liking to the story of The Black Arrow.

He jumps off the cart and raises his arm, both in greeting and to bid the travelers to halt. They come to a stop in front of him.

“… Ralof?”

“Jarl Ulfric.” It is hard to tell which one of them is more surprised by the encounter as I join the group.

“And you’re the man who shared our cart.” The would-be High King draws back the hood of his cloak — brown, not blue — revealing his unshaven face, irregular stubble on his cheeks next to the fuller growth circling his lips.

“Ragnar Reinhardson, Jarl Ulfric. May this meeting be more fortuitous than our last one. We have quite the tale to tell, best away from prying ears and eyes.” The others on the tail end of the caravan had begun throwing increasingly curious glances our way. I have little concern they may try to capture and sell the Jarl. Most of the Nords seemed neutral or sympathetic to the Stormcloak cause, although after a particularly heated argument Bulgor forbade any further talk about politics. But in the end, a mercenary’s heart is where the money is. If they cared deeply enough about either cause they would have joined the war instead of toiling away as caravan guards.

The Jarl nods. “Torolf, Rona, take my horse and keep a look on the caravan. Come, walk with me.” He dismounts and we walk in step with Ulfric out of earshot of the caravan where we tell him of our encounter with Jarl Balgruuf. When we conclude he hm’s deeply and remains silent for close to a minute before speaking again. “This shrine then is in Whiterun Hold?”

“I’m actually not entirely sure,” Ralof admits while rubbing the back of his head. “It is close by Riverwood, but Riverwood is close to the Hold’s border to begin with.”

I round on Ralof in surprise. “ _What_? Why didn’t you say something? This changes everything!” My entire premise was that the Thalmor violated Whiterun’s sovereignty.

“It’s not like the borders are marked,” the Stormcloak says defensively. “I remember five years or so ago there was a dispute over hunting grounds, so even for the Jarl there must be some uncertainty…”

“Unused land can have uncertain ownership,” Jarl Ulfric explains. “There are no tax records, no farmer toiling it, and if there are no natural features to mark the boundaries it can be troublesome to determine a century later what our predecessors might or might not have agreed upon in their time. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. If Riverwood is the nearest notable settlement it stands to reason the victims were likely subjects of Balgruuf’s. The people are more important than the land, on that at least he and I are of one mind.”

I slowly chew my lip. Perhaps it isn’t so bad after all. Jarl Balgruuf and his entourage gave no indication that they were aware the shrine is outside of their jurisdiction.

“Don’t fret, son of Reinhard. Either way, showing Balgruuf the true face of the evil the Empire allows to persist was a task well done. It seems the fates paired you with a smart companion, Ralof.”

“If I’m smart it is because I got brains for two while that horse thief from our cart had none.”

The Jarl gives a short, snort-like laugh. “Quite true. You were dealt the same unenviable hand but only one of you rose to the occasion. I take it you are supportive of our cause?”

“I want to see the Thalmor brought low, the faith of Talos restored and peace return to Skyrim with as little bloodshed between friends and neighbours as possible. That’s what I hoped to accomplish in Whiterun, given time. If the land is ravaged we won’t fare well in the fight that is to come after, and right now we have a more calamitous threat looming. You know the prophecies and legends as well as I do, Jarl Ulfric.”

“The World-Eater wakes…” An ominous silence grasps us in its icy hand. “I don’t yet know whether it is Alduin himself or another dragon who survived the age of man, hidden away in its mountain cave. If a Dragonborn should reveal themselves we shall know the truth.”

Nobody speaks for a while as our feet trudge on mechanically along the roadway brightened by a bashful sun. It is Ralof who finally breaks the silence. “There is another matter of lesser import, Jarl Ulfric. Jarl Balgruuf has requested that, should you place your trust in me, I should return to be your spokesperson at his court…”

It had surprised me when Ralof first told me. It seems despite their rough start the Jarl has taken a liking to the Stormcloak. I contemplated whether he tried to get out of the squabbles between Gray-Manes and Battle-Borns who as of now are the representatives of Stormcloaks and Empire respectively and probably drove the poor man mad with their constant bickering.

Or perhaps he is just terrified of the hell Gerdur would raise if her brother got killed.

Ulfric seems receptive of the idea and bids Ralof visit the Palace of the Kings once our caravan reaches Windhelm so he can be appropriately prepared for this task. I’m not too unhappy with this development; if he just rejoined the army I’d be unlikely to see Ralof again and I’ve grown quite fond of his company. All the friends and family I had are more distant than the furthest star in the night sky. Which are actually holes into Aetherius instead of celestial bodies. The cosmology of this place will require some getting used to.

We finally arrive at our destination after the journey’s last legs bring us through a snow-torn and wind-swept landscape giving truth to the names of Windhelm and Winterhold. Where Whiterun was a city of wood Windhelm is one hewn from cold, unforgiving stone. Bleak and admonishing the buildings stand like a field of gravestones, waiting for us to seek their eternal embrace. Unbidden the dearth of colour makes my mind jump to the DuckTales episode where they visit a penguin city of all black and white, a monochromatic, desolate barrenness that serves well as a visual representation of depression and stagnation. Perhaps daylight would give the city a less dreary atmosphere, but the sun has already fallen when we pass the mighty gate reinforced by a grid pattern of metal bands.

I collect my payment and say my goodbyes from my companions of the last ten days. Bulgor doesn’t restrain his considerable strength as we clasp forearms. “Good work Ragnar. Shame you won’t come north, I’d gladly have taken you along. If we meet somewhere down the line and you look for work I’ll see you have a place again.”

“I appreciate it, Bulgor. You were a good leader in and out of battle. Be careful with that new sword of yours, it can’t seem to get enough of your blood.”

The grin of an Orc is something I still have to get used to; it rather looks like he’s about to tear out my jugular with his teeth. “Guess I will never live that one down. Never once cut myself when testing an edge before. She’s a sharp one.”

It is time. It cost me ten long days, but now finally the goal lies before me. The house is easy enough to find and get into. Sparse candlelight guides my way through a once rich home now desolate and plundered, the few things left strewn around carelessly. A familiar litany drifts down the stairs, repeated steadily by a small and exhausted voice. The light of many candles reduced to short stubs shines forth from the room where I find young Aventus Aretino on his knees in desperate supplication.

“Rejoice, young man. Your prayers have been answered.”


	4. Interview with the Vampire

The young boy is a study in contrast, sunken cheeks, unwashed clothes and hair, dark bags under his eyes, and yet a beaming laugh on his face not befitting the clear signs of malnourishment and sleep deprivation. It’s like someone painted an exaggerated smile on a desiccated corpse. The boy would probably have continued his desperate plea until he fell over dead, and from the looks of him he is already more than halfway there.

"It worked! I knew you'd come, I just knew it! I did the Black Sacrament, over and over. With the body and the... the things. And then you came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood."

My eyes roam over the candle-lit floor. If the ritual is meant to discourage people from acting on a whim, its requirements certainly succeed at that task. It takes determination to collect a human skeleton and fresh heart in order to see your hatred come manifest. How did a lone child even get their hands on all this? He must have raided a crypt; even a grown man would struggle to dig up an old grave, in this frozen environment the earth must be hard as stone. The heart though? All possible explanations my mind supplies are disturbing. It is surprisingly fresh, not a putrid lump of mush and rot. It seems the ritual prevents the decay of the flesh.

I look at the boy, my hooded face reduced to the line of my eyes by a scarf wrapped around my head. “Tell me what ill plagues your mind.”

I make him tell me everything. His story, the schedule at the orphanage so I can catch Grelod alone while Constance is out, but most of all the life under the rule of the kind woman. I know she is abusive, I know she beats and humbles the children, but tale after tale of her kindness during my journey through the darkest crevices of his memory paint a far more vivid picture. Four men and women have died by my hand, perhaps five, but each time they tried to take my life as well. This, though, is murder, and each story of her abuse will help soothe my conscience. But no matter how deserving Grelod is, I won’t lie to myself about the motive that guided my path here. It wasn’t justice. It was power. The power of a magical armour set that will allow me to close the gap to men and beasts with far more strength and experience. The power of an ancient order of assassins who make potent friends and fearsome enemies.

The power to survive in a world five minutes from striking midnight.

A red moon glares down on me when I finally return to the deserted streets in the dead of night. I gently close the door. The mist of my breath cautions me to find a warm tavern fire soon.

“So, did someone finally come to answer the call of sweet Aventus?”

I freeze. Hand still on the door I stand rigid like a stonecutter’s handiwork. This is bad.

“Poor boy was going crazy. Wouldn’t even take a break to come play outside.”

The voice is far too young for a guardswoman. Right now I’d even be relieved to get caught by the Hold guards. I’m on good terms with the Jarl, and I even worked out a cover story with the boy of his deceased mother having been a friend of mine. Gripped by anxious trepidation I turn around, doing my best to keep my expression neutral in case my fear turns out to be right.

A young girl of perhaps ten in simple, unassuming clothes looks up at me with curious, round eyes. The vampire. I had failed to arrive before the Dark Brotherhood.

She cocks her head as my silence lingers, hands clasped behind her back. “So, are you one of the Dark Brotherhood then?”

“No more than you are, little one.”

Her mask of child-like curiosity doesn’t falter for the tiniest instant. Impressive.

Skyrim’s resident vampire loli. Although much unlike the others of her ilk in Japanese media she is very sensibly clothed, tan dress, red shirt covering her up to the slender neck. Very much appreciated you didn’t sexualize a prepubescent girl, Bethesda. I was never too fond of the ‘Well yes, she looks ten years old, but she’s actually a vampire/demon/homunculus etc. who is a thousand years old so it is alright to lewd her’ thing.

Still, Rory Mercury best girl. Sue me.

She smiles, thankfully without revealing her teeth; I wouldn’t trust myself not to stare. “Hrm, that’s strange. Who are you then?”

I raise my arm and put my palm to her forehead.

“Uh…”

I give her a cheeky smile. “That’s an interesting body temperature you got there.”

“Heh, not bad.” She shakes her head as if to cast off the mask of childish innocence and the feral grin she wears now is nothing a little girl should ever show. “What gave me away?”

“Honestly? Just a bit of bad luck.” I quickly check over my shoulder, but the streets are empty, and if anyone was listening in on us I expect she would notice far sooner than I. “A little girl, alone in the dead of night, in a city plagued by a serial killer who targets young women? If it was daytime or just another town you would have gotten away with it.”

“Shame. But luck is always part of business. Too bad you entered the city in the evening instead of come morning.” I give her a questioning look. “Freshly crushed snowberries under your boots, no more than a few hours old. So yes, vampire. How’d you figure out I wasn’t a werewolf, a mirage or some other kind of trick?”

“I suppose the touch would have revealed an illusion. And even if your temperature was normal, the lack of reaction to a stranger’s touch would have told me enough.”

She stomps her foot with a petulant scowl; an act, certainly, but adorable nonetheless. “You just caught me off-guard is all! Usually people don’t see through me until after I hold their heart in my hands.”

“Don’t you worry, I believe you,” I say while raising my hands in mock surrender. “Especially since you can probably rip my head off before I have my sword halfway out its sheath. I’m Ragnar by the way.”

“Babette. Nice to meet you.” She brushes back the long auburn hair that had creeped into her face during her more agitated motions. “He struck again, you know. The fragrance of his kill is all over this part of the city. It’s rather putting me on edge.”

I can’t help but give her a smile no less wicked than her own. “Wanna track him down?”

It is entirely too easy. Guided by her nose we walk the deserted streets towards our target, not even requiring to stop at the site of the body. “Looks like the fool took a trophy from his kill along with him.” She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. “Yes, the liver.”

After a bit of consideration I decide not to be creeped out by this. Best not to think about how she learned to distinguish organs by smell to begin with.

The snow on the streets is trampled flat from the day’s busier hours and it just started to fall again, but not yet enough to add a fresh layer to calm the ground ravaged by boot and wheel. The killer chose his moment well to avoid compromising footsteps, but he knew not to avoid the more subtle trail left to a vampire vengeful for his supposed part in her cover being blown. I don’t recall much of this quest, just that at one point you have to gain entry into the derelict house which later on you can purchase. This is where Babette guides us.

“He’s still inside. I won’t be long.” She disappears around a corner and I lean against a wall while I wait for her return. In the game this quest required a lot of walking back and forth, collecting clues, interrogating witnesses, multiple journals I think. Here, the whole thing was finished in ten minutes flat. With the greatly reduced size of the city in the game it would take less than a minute.

… plus however long Babette decides to play around with her food.

Alas, she seems to be merciful with the killer and after less than five minutes I notice her standing next to me on my left, where I could swear just empty air dwelled a moment before. Crafty little minx. “There’s the hero of the hour. Ulfric might give you a reward if it wasn’t troublesome to explain how a little girl did all that.”

“Eh, it’s alright. I’ve been at this long enough to not be hurting for money.”

“I guess that’s a fair point,” I say while nodding my head. “Although I have little idea how old you really are. Say, are there any vampires who try to act the old and wizened elder even though they’ve only been bitten a few years ago?”

“Heh, yes there are. Although that kind rarely makes it far.” We walk away from the scene of a presumably gruesome though well-deserved murder. “But as for me, I have easily seen more Emperors than my body has years. Although they sort of blend together after a while. How many Uriel Septims have there been, six?”

“Seven,” I supply. “Killed by an assassin at the onset of the Oblivion Crisis, although not one of yours. So, what about Grelod now? You didn’t seem resentful after I tried to take that contract away from you.”

“Ah well, somebody had to. In perhaps another week the boy would have prayed himself to death.” Her voice is nonchalant, although I somehow have the feeling she is glad this didn’t come to pass.

“It was a setup from the start. You were just waiting for someone to take the bait.” That’s why in the game you could hear rumors about the boy’s summoning in taverns far and wide, probably spread by the Brotherhood’s own agents. Even reduced as they are, they must have an excellent network of informants to locate contracts without a Listener. I wonder, has Cicero arrived at their Sanctuary yet? “So, I guess you are recruiting.”

“Yep. Guess it was easy enough to figure out after I blew my cover. But I don’t mind, you seem a nice enough fellow to have around.” She turns towards me and waves exuberantly. “We’ll be in touch. See you Ragnar!” By the time I raise my hand to wave back she is already gone.

I exhale with a sigh. That had gone differently than expected, but all things considered well enough. Though after being confronted by Babette I would have considered any result not involving my death as ‘well enough’.

I could really use a drink right now. A quite familiar sentiment ever since my arrival in Skyrim; I’ve drunk more in the past two weeks than several years before combined. I shouldn’t make too much of a habit of it.

The others of the caravan split up into several different taverns. I had originally planned for the New Gnisis Cornerclub in the Gray Quarter to hear some first-hand accounts of how bad the treatment of the Dunmer here really is, but it is way too late in the night now and I just want a few glasses of mead before turning in. Candlehearth Hall it is then.

The building has the triangular facade familiar from Viking structures except it is all gloomy stone instead of timber. But right now I’m far less interested in architecture than the wall of warm air that washes over me upon opening the door. Several familiar faces sit at a large table, Jolgeir, Senyndie and Agnar along with another three people unknown to me. The group seems to have been going at the cards before though now they lie abandoned in a disordered pile.

“Still at it I see. Too late to join for a drink before bedtime?” I ask as I approach the table.

The Redguard woman turns around. “Oh, Ragnar! Didn’t expect you to show up. Sure, grab yourself a chair.”

One of the strangers looks at me with apprehension. “That’s the one with the fire flasks?”

“The very same,” Jolgeir says with a laugh. “Don’t you worry, he’s a nice guy.”

“I just… thought he’d be bigger.”

I raise an eyebrow at the man; I think I pulled it off much better than Ralof did. “What did they tell you I did that would require me to be big and strong? Jolgeir didn’t embellish the number of bandits, did he? Sorry buddy, but I know you tend to exaggerate.”

“No, just… never mind.” He actually seems to be somewhat intimidated by me. Anyone at this table would probably beat me in a straight-up fight, and yet a little bit of anachronistic knowledge is enough to get a reputation as someone best not to mess with.

At least Ralof and I kept the story of Helgen under wraps. People would take it as a tall tale anyway. I book a room for the night and return to the group with a bottle of mead and empty cup in hand for a bit of company before putting a lid on the events of the day.

o-o-o-o

After a dreamless sleep I awake, my joints stiff and mouth dry. My vision is swimming and I groan as I ponderously move my head. Weird, I didn’t drink all that much. The blurry outlines around me slowly come into focus and I sit up with a breathless gasp. This isn’t where I went to sleep.

“Astrid, he’s awake.” Babette. She is sitting on a table with her legs swinging back and forth in a playful manner. We seem to be in one of the many mines dotting Skyrim’s landscape, this one long forsaken judging from the cobwebs and coarse rust left on the abandoned tools. Lanterns spread irregular light through the cavern, one of them right next to Babette, blinding me when I look directly at her. A deliberate placement I would wager.

“So I notice.” Astrid looks down on me from the top of the shelf she is perched on, same as in the game. A power play that is less subtle now I know how calculated it is. I wonder how she’d react if she were aware that despite appearances I was the one to engineer our meeting, though the sequence of events got disrupted. Little does she know that the armour set of form-fitting black and red obscuring all but the top half of her face is the very reason this all came to pass. “It seems you are leading an... interesting life. Secret roadside meetings with the Jarl himself, trying to steal a contract from us… a _dragon_ even?”

What? How. The first part they could have easily gotten by shadowing me in the tavern, but the only other people here to know about Helgen are Ralof and Jarl Ulfric’s party. Do they have a spy inside the Palace itself? Though the tale might have spread quickly after Ulfric’s return.

“You seem surprised.” Curse her ability to clearly see my face while her own is obscured. “Alas, you also know more than you were supposed to. The boy was indeed a setup to scout out a potential recruit.”

“Sorry Astrid,” Babette says in her light voice.

“It’s alright. It was my mistake actually. I knew she has a soft spot for abused children, and when you kept Aventus talking about life at the orphanage Babette decided she wants to kill Grelod herself.” That was it then. The missing link to explain the deviation from the game. “The plan was to observe how you handle Grelod to see if you have what it takes to be an assassin. So, that leaves us at an impasse. Now... what shall we do about it?”

I have to be very careful how I handle this. Astrid was all about control and obedience. Play to what she desires. “I think you already decided on a course of action and I’m not really in a position to object, so let’s go ahead with it.”

I’m pretty sure she is smiling beneath her mask. “Very well. You are not our only guest here, Ragnar. Behind you, you will find three unfortunate souls we have... collected for this little test. There is a contract out on one of them, and they must not leave this cave alive. As for yourself, that remains to be seen… Choose wisely. We’ll just observe, and see whether you are what you aspire to be.”

“I’m rooting for you big brother!” Of course the vampire loli would call me that. If she ever goes ‘oniii-chaaan’ I’ll at least know the people running this simulation are some weird otakus.

To be honest, Astrid is only marginally less creepy. The way she speaks, the pauses, inflections, the teasing tone of her voice that all but begs you to lean in closer, it’s rather the way someone would act when aggressively flirting, and matching the sound of her words with their actual content is rather jarring.

Getting to my feet is surprisingly hard. My muscles feel like iron rods and I more shuffle than walk until I get full feeling in my numb body again. Brushing over my cheek I feel stubble well in excess of what little a single day would yield. They must have kept me unconscious for several days while they hurried to set up this unplanned test.

At least it is one I know the answer to. Each choice is correct, you just have to demonstrate your willingness to follow her orders. Although I quickly notice it is not the same people as in the game; a female Dunmer, a Nord and an Imperial, both male, all of them on their knees in frightful anticipation with a black bag over their head. I turn back to Astrid. “Do you mind if I drink some water first? It feels like I have been chewing sand.”

“That’s quite alright… Your things are over there. There’s no strict time limit.”

I use the short pause to contemplate my options. This should follow the same principles as in the game, but I should still make a point of interrogating my potential victims to soothe my quiet fear of this test including a twist unknown to me. The Imperial is a lumberjack, the Nord a bandit and the Dunmer had a falling out with her family because of a budding relationship with one of the human residents of the Hold’s capital.

Something is off about the Nord though, his voice is drawn out, almost moaning, and his skin is cold to the touch… I check under his armour and discover a grisly wound covered in dried blood on his back, expertly sliding into the gap between a pair of ribs to find the heart. Most certainly fatal.

Babette smiles. “Heh. Caught me.”

An undead thrall then. So that one is out. It seems in the available time they couldn’t procure three suitable victims.

Ennodius Papius. I’m not entirely sure, but I think this was one of the contracts the Brotherhood gives you later on. The poor guy is a wreck and it doesn’t seem to be because of the current situation; paranoid delusions, living as a recluse after getting estranged from society. He will die here no matter what I do. But his death will buy my life.

I kneel down behind the doomed man and put my arm around his neck to apply a rear naked choke. He desperately throws his body back and forth to escape my hold but it is of no use with his hands tied behind his back. After half a minute his struggles cease and his limp body slumps forward while I keep applying the choke hold. It is an excellent method to subdue someone nonlethally; with the carotid artery clamped shut you will lose consciousness in perhaps twenty seconds. Release the hold, and they will soon come to without suffering any damage.

Don’t release the hold, and after a few minutes it will result in brain damage and, eventually, death.

“Hm, interesting,” Astrid comments, but otherwise my two examiners remain silent.

Several minutes pass until, finally, Babette speaks up. “You can let go. He’s dead now.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. His aura just faded.”

I carefully put the body on the ground and stand back up. So this is it. Murder. I crossed the moral event horizon in my quest to tame this hostile reality.

If this entire thing is just a demented social experiment to see how quickly morals fall by the wayside in this situation they got quite the result on their hands.

“I hope my choice was satisfactory.”

Astrid chuckles. “It was. Good thing you noticed the thrall, but I think you already understand. I ordered you to kill someone, and you obeyed. Oh, you questioned them to figure out which one to take, but not once did you question me. That’s the result I was looking for.” Babette slowly claps with an exuberant smile. “Welcome to the fold, Ragnar. You are one of us now.”

“Congratulations, big brother!”

I close my eyes and exhale slowly. I did it. I joined the Dark Brotherhood. The Rubicon is crossed, and the price has been paid.

But this is just the first step. I may have been aiming for the magical gear to give me an edge, but more than that the Brotherhood is an incredibly powerful tool in the right hands. Astrid had her faults in the game that directly led to the group’s downfall, but she was driven by pragmatism and self-interest, not the sinister idealism represented by the Night Mother. So that is what I will appeal to. The Morag Tong in Morrowind were an assassin’s guild operating legally, sanctioned by the Empire. If I can broker such a deal between her and Ulfric in exchange for not targeting his people it could herald an incredible shift in the landscape of power. That particular goal may well be unattainable, but when my arm isn’t strong enough it is my mind that has to be the lever to move the world.

Even if it fails, at the very least the tenets will protect me from being targeted by the Brotherhood myself. The Dragonborn is bound to collect enemies like Pokemon — not that I ever played it myself. And now I will finally be ready to face the challenge of Bleak Falls Barrow to learn the truth that will decide my role in the doom befalling this world.

Though all of that has to wait until after I make it to the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary near Falkreath. Oh how I long for fast travel. Another two weeks under the steady rumble of a cart and even the ardent beauty of the landscape ceases to be a distraction from the monotony of the road. I don’t have unlimited time. How long will it be until Alduin starts resurrecting his fallen brethren, or for either side of the civil war to launch a major offensive?

At least the time isn’t going to waste. I make steady progress on my spellcasting, even more so now with my share of the loot from the Valtheim bandits. A ring of a silver raven with tiny pieces of onyx for eyes, two voids of deepest blackness surrounded by the bird’s gleaming feathers. The animal’s wings stretch out and bend down to form a circle that fits around my middle finger snugly. An artful piece of jewelry, but more than that also enchanted to significantly improve my recovery of magicka. Haakon tried to make a play for it, reasoning it would fetch a good price, but Bulgor shut that down quick since I could actually make use of the ring myself and contributed greatly to our success, whereas Haakon didn’t even wet his blade. The scar-faced man didn’t take the rebuke well but knew better than to challenge the mighty Orc. I don’t think he will be working again with most of our former group.

Think of magical training like physical training. It works on the same principle: repetition, muscle memory, growth. The hood increasing my magicka pool allows me to push myself further on each set. The ring hastens my recovery between them. And finally the Mage Stone heightens my gains from each of them. I’m tempted to just shout the memes out into a world that wouldn’t understand them, let the gainz begin, don’t let a bro skip illusion-day!

After doing the math all these things together mean my progress in improving my magic is about 2.8 times as high as it otherwise would be, though it will drop off with time as the magicka bonus from the hood is static instead of percentaged and I can feel my pool slowly but steadily expanding with the constant usage I make of it. I finished learning both the Oakskin and Magelight spells and my fine control of the Flames has improved to the point where I can reduce the output enough to serve as a lighter. Generating heat without flame though was a complete non-starter; I suspect such a spell would rather fall into the Alteration school.

No bandits harass our smaller group this time and luckily there were two familiar faces, Tostig and the silent one. I might have had trouble getting hired on my own, but they vouched for me and Roderic’s ‘I underestimated him too. Won’t happen again’ was the most I have seen him speak yet. I wonder what his story is; he is not exactly a loner, he joins the group whenever he isn’t on watch duty and listens attentively, but he almost never joins the conversation no matter the topic and if he does his words are as sparse as the Dwemer left in the world.

I decide not to spend the night in Falkreath and instead continue on to my destination. The slowly waning twilight accompanies my lonesome journey while I chuckle at the thought that this would be a really inconvenient time for a random pack of wolves to attack. What an anticlimactic end to this sordid tale that would be.

I finally spot the white birch tree split into a V shape Astrid had described and step off the path. Now just walk towards the peak of that mountain as straight as possible to hit the right direction. Thirty more minutes through grass and undergrowth bring me to a gap in a rock formation hidden by moss and ferns. After a sudden bend I stand before the black door adorned with a large skull bearing the imprint of a hand on its brow. The Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood lies before me.

**WHAT IS THE MUSIC OF LIFE?** The spectral voice of the door is hazy, feeling distant and direction-less despite the ominous portal standing right in front of me. I open my mouth to answer but no words come forth.

I’m not sure why I hesitate. I already did the deed, there is no point in balking now. If I’m asked to do something I can’t bear I can bow out then and suffer the consequences, after reaping the rewards for the evil I have already committed.

Two deep breaths let me expel my misgivings and I speak with determination. “Silence, my brother.”

**WELCOME HOME.**

The sinister door admits me into the Sanctuary where I am immediately greeted by a Babette bouncing on her heels. “You made it, big brother.”

“I did,” I say with a smile. “You made it here before me even with going to Riften first?”

“Yep! Been here for a couple of days.”

Bullshit vampire powers. Or perhaps she has lived long enough to learn Teleportation while the spell was still around. Who knows. I’d better ask her though, that would be a convenience unlike any other.

“Come, I’ll bring you to Astrid.” She’s actually skipping. Skipping.

This time the Dark Brotherhood’s mistress reveals her face. She seems to be one of those women who look thirty when they are actually in their forties; I suppose her line of work requires some healthy physical fitness. But the lines on either side of her lips speak of the years she has seen, and the black eyeliner can’t hide the slow onset of wrinkles either. Her hair though is still the rich yellow of wild honey.

“Ah, there he is. The newest member of our little family. Welcome, to our Sanctuary. You won’t find a safer place far and wide. We may be a smaller group than we once were, but each of our kin is… interesting in their own ways. But you will see when you introduce yourself.”

“Does that include me?” I wonder aloud. “I hope it’s not just the dragon thing. It may feel special now, but unless that winged horror went right back to sleep my experience will become far less exclusive soon enough.”

Astrid gives me a teasing smile. “I’m sure there are… other things appealing about you. Now, let’s get you dressed so you can look the part when meeting the rest of our family.”

“It should be an easy fit, we took your measurements while you were out,” Babette pipes up.

Of course they did. I’ll just tell myself each new recruit had to go through that kind of hazing.

Well, no point in being bashful, and not having to go through the ministrations of a tailor is something I won’t complain about. It lives up to their promise; form-fitting black leather with maroon red as a secondary colour, different sections connected with steel rivets that are dulled to stop any light from reflecting on their surface. The armour doesn’t creak when I move and the seams are expertly placed, my joints bending without any restriction. And to think this is as strong as full metal armour. Boots that will magically muffle the sound of my passing. Black gloves with red bracers that will let me strike true when attacking unseen — yeah, I have a Rogue’s Sneak Attack now bitch. A black cowl reaching down to my shoulders that will give my ranged attacks more strength. The least impressive enchantment is probably the poison resistance of the cuirass, but it still protects my entire body without leaving any gaps while I barely feel its weight with how well it is distributed.

And if I desire more protection I can always combine the armour with mundane gear. A helmet. The greaves from my current footwear would easily fit on top of the boots. Hells, I could even just throw a chainshirt or gambeson on top of it all. Certainly wouldn’t hurt to not look all that sinister when in un-initiated company. At the very least a thick woolen tabard like with the Stormcloak cuirass for some more colour and warmth would be advisable.

“So, I gotta ask… Will people recognize this armour when I walk around like this in public?”

Astrid waves her hand. “Don’t you worry, there are no insignia and the fit is tight enough to allow other clothes on top. Though I wouldn’t wear the mask unless you’re out on a job. Irrespective of the Brotherhood, people tend to be suspicious when someone obscures their face like that.”

“I have one too you know, but I almost never get to wear it. No matter the colour, people take notice of a little girl wearing armour,” Babette says in a pouting voice.

“I just had the urge to ruffle your hair, but I don’t know you well enough yet to judge whether you’d like it or rip my arm off.”

“Heh. I’ll give you one freebie, but after that all bets are off.”

Astrid leans forward to address the much shorter girl. “Babette, why don’t you go ahead and gather the others, we’ll be right behind.”

“Alright. See ya!” She scurries off, leaving me alone with Astrid.

“It’s an act, like you probably figured. But one she enjoys so much I think she might have gotten lost in it and even started to fool herself.”

“Yeah, I suspected it’s something like that,” I say with a nod. “Although who knows what happens to a child’s mind when their body never hits puberty but the wheel of time just keeps on turning.”

“A question for the scholars, if they ever dare seek out the pertinent subjects.” She turns away, hands resting on a table with her back toward me. “There’s something I wanted to ask, just you and me. Ulfric.”

I suspected something like this might come. It is far preferable to me if we have an open talk instead of her harboring unspoken suspicions. “Sure, what do you want to know? I’m not exactly sure what you already managed to uncover.”

“I know about Helgen, and your little talk though only in the roughest terms. But more than that, I want to know where your loyalties lie.”

“If you fear I might side with Ulfric over the Brotherhood you need not be concerned. I’m not beholden to the man himself, just his goals that align with mine. I want the faith of Talos restored, and I want this war to end with as little mayhem as possible. I wouldn’t be here if I balked at a bit of bloodshed, but all-out war hurts even those not involved in it. So no, I’m not a Stormcloak idealist. I’m pragmatic about achieving my goals, and I value people who do likewise.” I may be laying it on a little thick, but in the end she has no way of knowing that I essentially got to read the Cliff Notes on her innermost character.

Astrid nods slowly and lets the pause linger for a while. “I can agree with that much. The Brotherhood has no stake in the civil war, but if I had the freedom to choose I’d restore the faith of Talos too. We may be in service to Sithis, but the blood flowing through my veins is still that of Ysgramor.”

“Then I think you will find an agreeable subordinate in me, Astrid.” My eyes roam over the faded spiral patterns adorning the walls; it seems this once was a Nord crypt. How fitting, a hall of the dead who yet live becoming the Sanctuary of the living who deal in death. “Surely you have gotten Black Sacraments for both Ulfric and General Tullius, right? It can’t be just people with more personal grudges, and someone who lost friends or family in the war might well blame the leader when the identity of those who struck the killing blow is more elusive.”

“Hm, quite true. There probably wasn’t an Emperor who was never targeted by a Black Sacrament, except Martin Septim given the shortness of his reign.” I actually never finished Oblivion, but by now I have been thoroughly spoiled on how that one ended. “But such a contract would not come cheap, and even then we might not accept. And in the days of the Night Mother the criteria of acceptance were more opaque still.”

How much of that Night Mother stuff qualifies as public knowledge? I best play it safe. “I don’t suppose there is a book telling of the Brotherhood’s history so I don’t have to rely on often unreliable hearsay?”

“There is. Come, we’ll pick it up along the way.”

Meeting the rest of the Brotherhood is a rather short affair; half of them are out on contracts, and neither Arnbjorn nor Veezara are the talkative type. Nazir is all business and gives me my first official contract, killing the beggar Narfi in Ivarstead, along with a side serving of sarcasm and mockery. Convenient enough as my path will soon lead me to High Hrothgar.

Unless one of a hundred things that could go wrong do.

Before departing, I seek out Babette once more. “Just got my first contract. I hear you are good with potions. Poisons too?”

Her face lights up. “Oh yes! I got some interesting things to put on your weapons. Though the frostbite venom you had is already quite decent. I raised Lis from the time she could fit on my finger to get a steady supply.”

I raise my hand to bid her to halt. “Actually, I was more thinking of an ingested poison.”

“Hrm… the old classic poisoner route? I like it. Got something for that too, but a poison that is both fatal and tasteless doesn’t come cheap big brother.”

“That won’t be necessary. Have it taste like whatever, as long as it’s fatal.”

She looks up at me with big, curious eyes. “Oooh? Interesting.” After a bit of rummaging she produces a small vial with a black, ink-like liquid. “Extremely bitter to the taste. You need to drink all of it without thinning it down. After an hour or so you get light-headed and soon drift off to sleep and never wake up again. It’s not that convenient for assassination. What have you planned, big brother?”

I give her a wide smile. “Have a little faith.”

It is time for me to part from my family of questionable morality. Whiterun beckons once again, and then I can finally face the challenge of Bleak Falls Barrow. If I am lucky, the Jarl already sent someone else and I’ll just have to walk past the dismembered draugr to the undefended Word Wall. If I am unlucky, the bandits retrieved the Golden Claw and are now lost to me like a leaf blowing in the wind.

Or perhaps the dragon just burned Whiterun to the ground while I was busy shopping for a new wardrobe.


	5. Tomb of Horrors

Normalcy has once again returned to Whiterun by the time my journey brings me back to the bluff-bound city toiling away peacefully under a bright autumn sky. Soon a month will have passed since Alduin’s initial attack and with no further reported sightings of the World Eater people had little choice but to go on with their lives. I wonder what the mighty dragon is up to right now; only two others of his kind remain, Paarthurnax, who is his enemy, and Mirmulnir, of whom I know naught but name. The age of man heralded by Alduin’s disappearance has greatly changed the world he once knew, and evidently not to his liking. Once he locates the burial mounds of his kin to breathe fresh life into their imperishable bones the crisis will intensify in a way none but I will see coming. Even the sparse remnants of the Blades may not be aware yet, though it is Delphine who reveals the ancient ones’ resurrection to the Dragonborn later on.

A perspicuous course of action would be for the mortal races of Skyrim to retrieve the draconic remains themselves as soon as Alduin’s actions become known. Though I am not certain the Dragonborn can absorb the soul of one such currently dormant fragment of Akatosh; at the very least, nothing happened when passing over one of the burial sites in the game. But more than that, such a shift in the grand conflict would invariably lead to an escalation from Alduin’s side. More than anything the Dragonborn needs time to grow in power before he has any hope of overcoming his destined foe, and backing Alduin into a corner right at the start would force his hand — claw — into taking more decisive measures.

In other words, the right course of action may be to permit the resurrection of the fallen dragons with all the death and destruction it entails.

Rationality and pragmatism in service of the greater good — indeed, the preservation of the world itself — are easy to support in theory. But I can already feel the sour taste razed villages and burned children will leave in my mouth once the spectre of time raps on my door to collect the toll for my inaction.

It feels like I have become a different man since the last time I stepped through these gates. Not in outward appearance; my hair is unchanged, I didn’t grow a beard and I still wear the same Stormcloak cuirass and green cloak on top of my new armour. No, the change is on a more spiritual level. I had a body count before but the ones since then were different. And not just the more obvious case of Ennodius Papius. Back in Helgen I took mercy on the Imperial soldier whose head I pushed into the babbling stream until his desperate struggles ceased. But at the Valtheim Towers, when a disarmed man lay at my feet, I slammed the iron rim of my shield into his skull until his helpless groans fell silent forevermore. Even trained soldiers were known to be reluctant to fire at their fellow humans, and recovered muskets loaded with two, three or even more balls are thought to be linked to this. How long did I hesitate before I pulled the trigger of my crossbow? Trick question. I didn’t. My bolt took to the air before Bulgor had finished speaking his command. When push came to shove and fight-or-flight kicked in I was all too ready to fight and kill, even after I decided that the people here are as real as the ones I had known before. Perhaps it is because the existence of an afterlife is an objective fact here, which frankly changes everything — what are a few decades in the mortal realm compared to the eternity afterwards? Much as I enjoyed the tale of Faust, be it told by Goethe or Marlowe, selling your immortal soul for temporary gain always seemed the epitome of foolishness to me.

Or perhaps just an inability to grasp basic math.

But even without the native afterlife things are different. This is a simulation run by some outside force, and whatever form my consciousness takes — data on a hard-drive, a brain in a vat, a body in a lotus eater machine — my existence is first and foremost dependent on something outside my grasp and perception. And while that something may be destroyed if this simulated body perishes, that is far from a given. That is how it worked in for example The Matrix and Sword Art Online, but that was just a narrative device to give higher stakes to the events inside the simulation.

I always thought that The Matrix didn’t go far enough. While the previously known reality was just a simulation, the truth on the other side turned out to be all too similar, easy to access conceptually. In fact, right now I have no guarantee that I am human, or that something like humanity even exists in the first place. More than that, three dimensions, space and time itself? Imagine making the character of an old 2D sidescroller like Super Sonic or equally super Mario an AI with consciousness, and then showing it the third dimension for the first time.

Who was it again who said that something or the other was infinitely beyond our understanding? I loved Yudkowsky’s quip that the person in question ‘got a real kick out of not knowing something’. But in this case, I feel it is true: the possibilities of the outside reality are unfathomable, infinitely beyond what I could ever imagine. It may be something as simple as my body with a NerveGear equivalent on its head, or something so conceptually alien it defies description.

It is at this moment I for the very first time come to truly appreciate the severity of the curse ‘May you live in interesting times’. Whether or not it was falsely attributed to a Chinese proverb.

Well, nothing I can do about it right now. I still have to focus on surviving in this artificial world.

Adrianne Avenicci is inside Warmaiden’s when I enter the shop, for once not beating metal into shape at the anvil. I greet both her and her husband Ulfberth War-Bear. I think the h came before the t in the famous smith mark found on many medieval swords. I hope Adrianne never told her mate of how I was captivated by the charm of her features, those are some mighty biceps he’s got on him. Better not tell him sleeveless tops worn by men are called ‘wife beaters’.

“Welcome back Ragnar. Here to pick up your custom order?”

“Sure, if you got it ready. And probably a sword and armour too.”

“Looks like you had some profitable days,” Ulfberth says in an amiable tone that seems genuine, not the pretend smiles of a salesman. “Glad you decided to spend it here.”

Well, he seems friendly enough, not the vengeful, overprotective husband type. “You know how it is. Bandits try to take your stuff, you end up taking theirs, then sell most of it to buy better stuff to more easily defend yourself next time.”

“Aye, I’ve been there,” he says with a nod. “Though I hear the roads are worse now than back in my day. The war is starting to affect even Whiterun.”

Adrianne produces half a dozen broadhead bolts shining bright with the reflected sun spying on us through the high windows. “Never made silver weaponry before, so I had to consult a jeweler on how to make it durable. Still, it’s less hard than I’d like, the edge will dull soon with continued use, especially if you hit something tougher than flesh.”

Were the swords of the Silver Hand the same or did they know a method to forge silver into a more durable shape suitable for weapons? Silver cutlery used to be popular and I’m quite certain it wasn’t pure either, some kind of alloy. I should be mindful not to waste them early on so I can take advantage of the aversion to silver the unliving of this world possess until the end of the dungeon. It may give me the edge I need against the draugr of Bleak Falls Barrow. I don’t yet know whether a small wound from a bolt would have much of an effect against something without vital organs. It shouldn’t adhere to the common trope of zombies only dying to headshots; Oblivion had headless zombies, so the animation is not linked to the brain.

I next check out some Elven chest armour. It is downright ridiculous how light it is, even combined with my Shrouded Armour underneath it will weigh less than a chain shirt. And it will be much easier to wear too; with a chain shirt all the burden rests on the shoulders whereas a well-crafted plate armour distributes its weight evenly over the body. And far as I can tell the skill of the Warmaiden is beyond reproach.

It is a beautiful piece, the pauldrons and leg pieces evoking the shape of overlapping golden feathers, a theme picked up by a ring of scales going around the hip where the solid plate covering the chest and back ends, allowing the body to twist and bend without giving up protection. The colour is the only thing I take offense at. While certainly pretty, it is just not practical for my purposes. I pay her an advance on one of the armours to dull its gleam and adjust its fit to my body. It will take her some days between all the other work so my Stormcloak cuirass will have to see me through one more dungeon.

I struggle to find a sword that is to my liking. The crossguards are way too small, and the handles are made for one hand with the pommel as a stopper. I’d rather have a pommel I can fit my hand around next to a handle long enough to wield the sword either in one or both hands as the situation demands. In the end I settle for a cheap iron sword with a disk-shaped pommel that will serve me better than the shorter Imperial blade I still wear at my hip. Later on I might have the time to order a custom design. Something like an Oakeshott Type XVIII would be more to my taste. A pointed steel helmet rounds out my purchases. Maybe it is just me, but the brighter metal of the noseguard branching into a T at the top gives it the feel of oversized eyebrows. Ragnar Lothbrok in Civilization 4 had something like that — in a colour matching his beard. I for the longest time didn’t realize it was part of his helmet.

“Seems I found a good customer in you. Your friend stopped by a couple days ago to fix up his helmet.”

“Oh, Ralof is back? That’s good to hear.” The metal helmet in the shape of a bear’s head had been part of his share of the loot at Valtheim. I hadn’t seen that kind before in the game but apparently it is quite valuable and made from a combination of steel, quicksilver and ebony, giving it a lustrous finish similar to chrome. It was strong enough to deflect a solid blow from Bulgor’s greatsword, the mighty blade glancing off to the side and damaging the decorative left ear. I’m sure it will serve him well, and the bear motif is quite fitting for a Stormcloak. “He kept singing praises for your ax’s craftsmanship so it’s only sensible he’d come to you for his other armament-related needs. Do you know where he’s staying at?”

“Up at Dragonsreach. Didn’t take him for the political type to be honest. But before you go, I got something else for you.” She turns towards her husband. “Honey, could you fetch that case from below the counter?”

I’m taken aback with surprise. “I thought you said it would take a while until you get a fresh supply.”

“I did, but Eorlund had a bit left over from another project. It wasn’t much, but sufficient for a pair.”

Ulfberth opens the oblong wooden case, showing me the object of my desire lying on a bed of fine red cloth. “You could get fifty normal ones for any of these, you know.”

“I do,” I say, still absorbed in my reverence. “These are for when fifty or a hundred normal ones wouldn’t cut it.”

I depart with my supply of money considerably depleted. Buying additional spell tomes will have to wait until after the windfall from raiding Bleak Falls Barrow, but since I’m not traveling by cart I won’t have much time for studying in the meantime anyway.

Another stop brings me to a tailor where I order a custom reversible cloak, forest green on one side, gray on the other to serve me in various kinds of terrain. Then it is finally time to make the many-stepped ascent to Dragonsreach once more.

Farengar didn’t lose an ounce of his smug condescension in the time I was away. It gives me some pleasure to realize the constantly worn cowl is to hide the bald spots cutting deep into his hairline to give him a pronounced widow’s peak when in a careless moment his head leans forward a bit too far while he is poring over an aged scroll beset by cracks and discolourations. “I suppose you came for a more advanced spell book after I had to caution you to take the obvious step of starting at the bottom, as befits an amateur?”

Customer service — zero stars. “Not quite yet. But I came across something interesting.” I open the Book of the Dragonborn on the page I had marked with a scrap of parchment and point him to a passage on the left side.

He studies the text with eager eyes for some time before speaking. He doesn’t seem to struggle with the ligatures as much as I did initially; some of them were unfamiliar to me and likely developed out of the habits of English writing instead of Latin. I most certainly have never seen an an-ligature before; the a in its familiar double-c shape and the second one connects with the second stroke of a minuscule n, the resulting shape omitting the initial stem of the n. “The Dragonstone, guarded by the mighty warrior Ingmorn who gave the Frost-Reaver clan their name… Fancy yourself a scholar then with one somewhat uncommon book to your name?” He gives me a smug look. “Alas, you are far behind the curve. I have been researching this particular artifact for a while and I am now certain its location is Bleak Falls Barrow.”

That is some excellent news, though I gladly would have taken it without the attitude. “Well, leave it to you then to be such a skilled researcher to track it down.” I notice with satisfaction the wince he is trying to hide. It was Delphine who uncovered the Dragonstone’s resting place, but he doesn’t know I know and the subtle dig evidently struck true. “Less than two days away, that’s convenient. Did you already send someone to retrieve it?”

“I suppose there is no harm in telling you. The Jarl has sent a group, but we haven’t heard from them yet. It has been six days by now.”

Interesting. In the timeline of the game this information was already in place right away. Which would require Delphine to immediately make for Whiterun after Alduin’s first appearance with the knowledge of the Dragonstone already in hand. This slower development makes sense I feel once events are no longer driven by player-presence. Though it begs the question of what the new timeline of other critical events will be. “Well, since you already told me about it, I could go check up on them. I’ve always wanted to explore an old Nord ruin instead of just reading about them.”

“Oh?” Farengar smirks below his hood. “Not just a scholar, but a mighty warrior too now?”

“No. But I know people who are.”

o-o-o-o

“Reinhardson! You’re back!” Ralof laughs gleefully as he wraps me in a tight hug I gladly reciprocate.

“Same to you, Ralof.” We separate again, my hands still on the shoulders of the slightly taller man. His battle-worn armour has been exchanged for polished steel. With his new role as Jarl Ulfric’s representative he must have been given a more decorative piece to look the part, the rondel below his left shoulder adorned with a golden inlay of the bear’s head serving as the Stormcloak banner. “I thought we wouldn’t meet again once you’re back out on campaign. How’s diplomacy treating you?”

His hand makes a dismissive wave. “Eh, less negotiating than you’d think, far more listening to the quibbles of the Gray-Manes to see what is worth bringing before the Jarl. What are you up to now?”

“In the near future? Raiding Bleak Falls Barrow. There is an artifact that might help us with this dragon crisis. You up for it?”

His smile falters as his face succumbs to uncertainty, but he quickly recovers. “I had heard the Jarl has sent a group. I have lived all my childhood in the shadow of that place, hearing tales and whispers of its forgotten history… Yes, I think it is time to face the fears of my youth. Just like I overcame those spiders in Helgen.”

Oh my sweet summer child, you’re in for a big surprise. “Excellent. I’d set out tomorrow morning, but there is another matter I could use your help with if you’re free in a couple hours.”

“Sure, what do you have in mind?”

Judging from his reaction I’m giving Babette a run for her money when it comes to unsettling smiles.

o-o-o-o

“Looks like flour, sawdust and sap are out as well, but these three are still going strong.” I look at a group of fires where I ignited my experimental Molotovs, my left hand holding a depleted spell tome to take notes in. With the ink burned away, I’m still left with a perfectly fine blank tome to use as I see fit. I struggle to decide whether or not this would technically qualify as a palimpsest.

It must be something like one in a million people who’d ever ask this question if put in my situation.

Pure lamp oil burned away far too fast to be an ideal weapon; at the Valtheim Towers the initial disarrayed panic dealt far more damage than the actual fire. But that is a problem not beyond fixing; I just need to find the right thickening agent, and my experiment so far is blessed with success.

The Magelight winks out and I quickly recast the spell. I had been contemplating how best to measure the duration of the fires and perhaps look for an hourglass, but then I realized the fixed duration of spells gives me an unerring timer. Granted, it can only count ten minute intervals, but unless I want to take accurate measure of far shorter periods of time it will serve my purposes well enough.

“Looks like Troll Fat gives a good result with very little smoke, but it’s far more costly than the other options. I’ll have to hit a butcher’s shop to see whether other kinds of fat would do as well. Rock oil works too but produces thick clouds of noxious smoke; advantageous in some situations, but rather unsuited for our foray into Bleak Falls Barrow. A three to two mix of oil and fat seems a good compromise, it already lasted through one interval.” Given that petroleum lacks alchemical properties it took me some time to find a supplier, or indeed just to learn what it is called in Skyrim, but luckily I recalled crude oil had been used in construction since ancient times. That’s where my search finally did bear fruit.

I have yet to test Dwarven Oil, Arcadia did not have it in stock but the pricing would be prohibitive anyway.

“So… is this alchemy?” Ralof looks with uncertainty over the fires slowly eating themselves away on bare rock. Some of them still spread their heat but many others are already reduced to a scorch mark to be gradually worn away by wind and rain. I couldn’t think of a good way to measure the varying temperatures of my mixtures; maybe use a pot with a fixed amount of water to see how long it takes to reach a boil. Another time perhaps, and far as I can tell there are no stark divides in the temperatures reached. A few degrees more or less shouldn’t make a vital difference when doused in burning liquid.

“Not quite. There is no magic here. I’m just adding in another, more slowly burning substance so the fire lasts longer. You saw how little time the fire flasks lasted in Valtheim.” That’s the term that was generally agreed upon after the battle. The D&D nerd in me was sorely tempted to dub them alchemist’s fire, but as said, no alchemy here. Something basic like mixing a thicker with a thinner liquid produces the expected results, even as I am still unsure whether the underlying physical laws are the same. Alchemy in fact is the best evidence so far against that notion; mix up some common flowers and foodstuffs and suddenly you got magic.

So the basic building blocks of creation might have inherently magical properties instead of the atomic model of the Main Simulation. I have yet to devise a more conclusive test instead of idle speculation; the best idea I came up with so far was to learn the Sparks spell and shoot lightning at water. If it produces ozone it would seem to confirm the H2O structure of water, or at the very least a strong commitment to imitate the physics of the Main Simulation.

Though perhaps there is yet alchemy to be had here. There was a poison effect to give weakness to one particular element. Would that work as a contact poison if mixed into the flaming liquid? I’ll have to research whether any cheap components possess the effect and then give it a try. Molotovs are bad enough, but one that also confers vulnerability to fire to the hapless victim? I said I don’t intend to play fair, but this transcends lack of fairness into outright comic book supervillainy. The Geneva Convention would use bold and underlined letters for its paragraph outlawing such a weapon.

Ralof hm’s in contemplation. “Imperial scholars might look back upon the day you came to Helgen and curse the unknown klutz who spilled lamp oil on the floor.”

His joke provokes a laugh from me. “Perhaps. This stuff would certainly be useful in warfare, but once it has seen some success there is nothing preventing the other side from using it likewise. Though it could give a significant advantage against beasts, particularly trolls. And any draugr we might encounter in Bleak Falls.”

The Molotov cocktail is a low-hanging fruit that only came into fashion long after the time it would have been both feasible and useful, much like stirrups. I most certainly can’t pull off all the sciency bullshit of Dr. Stone. No more anime for me, thank you very much Operator. I contemplated dubbing the mysterious voice Being X instead, but let’s try for some originality.

We get ready to pack up once the last fires finally expire and I finish my notes. I consciously avoided writing down any of my outside knowledge of this world. While it certainly would be helpful to take down anything I recall instead of having to rely on faulty memory alone, it is a risk I just can’t take. If I documented information about the return of dragons, the Eye of Magnus at the College or even this whole simulation business the results would have been disastrous if Astrid had taken a peek when the Brotherhood unexpectedly kidnapped me ahead of schedule.

I had some time to catch up with Ralof as to the results of his new position. He also informed me that he left the names of our group with Proventus and each of us is free to collect their share of the bounty for the bandits. A pleasant enough surprise, four Septims are good money. I just wish he’d thought of telling me while we were still up at Dragonsreach.

Jarl Balgruuf broached the subject of the disrepaired fortifications of Whiterun, both the city itself and the Hold at large. The man had been worried that any military build-up could be seen as a provocation and preparation to join the war. After some back-and-forth they had agreed on small garrisons in places like Valtheim to secure the roadways as well as installing ballistas in strategic locations, but not repairing any walls or forts — any such structures are of little use against a dragon, so their restoration would ostensibly be about human foes. I’m not quite certain whether they came to an agreement beneficial to all or whether the much more savvy statesman of Balgruuf rolled right over the far less experienced Ralof and secured the go-ahead to shore up his defences against a later Stormcloak attack. Ten men at Valtheim can hardly stop the advance of an army, but they can give early warning to Whiterun, perhaps even temporarily block the road with boulders from the cliffside.

Such subterfuge seems far too underhanded for Jarl Balgruuf, but do I feel confident enough in that assessment to stake the entire outcome of the civil war on it?

“Are you staying at the Bannered Mare again then?”

“I am. I’ve been thinking about asking Uthgerd to come along. Girl seemed eager for a proper fight.”

Ralof chuckles. “I think she’d be up for it. I also met some of the Companions through my work, the patriarch of the Gray-Manes is a retired member. One of them owes me a favour.”

“Really? Which one?”

He looks at me quizzically. “Do you know them?”

My mouth charged ahead of my brain again. “Well, I never met any of the Companions, but they’re famous enough. Their leader’s name is Kodlak, right?”

“Kodlak Whitemane, yes. Farkas is the one I’m talking about. He and his brother are both with the Companions. Turns out sharing stories of how hard our older siblings have been on us is a good bonding experience.”

I laugh. I can imagine, though I wouldn’t know; I’m an older brother and while we fought plenty as kids, I got along fine with my sister later on. Whatever might have happened to my family after my transfer?

“And what did you do to have a Companion owe you a favour?”

Ralof smirks. “Not gonna tell.”

o-o-o-o

Farkas and I have almost the same hair in colour, length and style, and with a boatload of steroids I might actually have pulled off a decent cosplay of the guy. He succeeds where untold numbers of goth kids have failed — his guyliner actually looks badass instead of cringey. The cold gunmetal gray of his armour has a clear wolf theme, frontal view of a head on the chest plate, skulls on the bracers, though I am not sure whether the cushioning fur of a dark brown bordering on black under the armour pieces was the offering of bear, wolf or yet another victim. Introductions are short and pleasant; it feels like no surprise the two of them hit it off, both are the outgoing and friendly type. “So you are Reinhardson then. Ralof told me of your exploits.”

Unintentional as it is, I love his choice of words. “Probably only the flattering parts, not the many times he had to save my ass.”

“You didn’t drown a trained soldier with your bare hands and devise a strategy to breach a fortified choke point within ten seconds?”

I hesitate, using a short laugh to mask my uncertainty. “I guess I did. Doesn’t sound that bad when you say it like that.”

Ralof smirks. “To be fair, I did leave out the part where I had to tackle him to the ground so he didn’t charge head first into a collapsing tunnel.”

Farkas gives me a confused look. “Why would you do that?”

“Hopefully uncharacteristic stupidity,” I quip. Knowledge and smarts are the only thing keeping me alive in all this, so such a lapse in judgement hurts all the more. “Listen, we have a proposition for you…”

The mighty Companion listens attentively to our tale, nodding along as he ponders after we finish. “Sounds interesting enough. I’d be all for it, though the others wouldn’t like it if I take a job without getting hired and paid for it.”

“Your fee might well be less than what you’d get from an equal share of the loot, so works for me.”

He laughs, revealing a set of clean and entirely normal teeth. Werewolves have no such easy tell, duly noted. “I’ll keep that in mind. I already have a task for the next two days, can you wait until then?”

Ralof and I share a look. Having another formidable warrior along for the ride would be more than welcome given the challenges I know we will face, but the original party is already several days overdue and the Jarl wouldn’t appreciate us tarrying. “I’m afraid we can’t delay that long sadly.”

“Pity.” He seems genuinely disappointed. “But I’m sure we’ll find another opportunity at some point. Testing the fresh blood takes priority.”

Uthgerd turns out likewise eager for battle but without any prior engagements. When we enter the Bannered Mare to seek her out we pass by the local bard, whatever his name, who sports a prominent black eye and instinctively recoils from Ralof. Ooo-kay. Looks like my main man is two out of three when it comes to the quests inside the Bannered Mare. Good thing he hasn’t yet touched the one with the refugee slash criminal from Hammerfell.

It is a group of three that sets out south along with a chestnut brown pack mule I had bought, its rhythmic trot and occasional snort now a constant companion. Much cheaper than a horse and better built for carrying loads. Skyrim’s manyfold dungeons always had more valuables than you could carry yourself — I think my cutoff point was a 10 to 1 gold to weight ratio to bother picking something up — and I’d very much prefer not to overencumber my own body if I can help it. Plus I really appreciate the opportunity to bring a tent, thick bedroll, foodstuffs and cooking utensils in addition to the products of my tinkering. It’s a real shame I couldn’t yet find something resembling soy sauce which sometimes feels like a cooking cheat code, but some egg, flour, assorted spices and breadcrumbs make for a decent coating to then fry chicken as well as a mix of carrots, potatoes and mushrooms for some not-quite pakoras. Both my lower-case c companions love the ear-pleasing crispness of fried chicken, which might well qualify as the least surprising thing to happen since I got here.

At our evening’s rest Uthgerd spends some time teaching me how to use a sword; when she asked how much combat experience I have with it and I answered ‘Ralof told you the start and end of it first time we met’ she was visibly displeased and elected to beat the green-ness out of me.

Yes, those were the exact words she used.

“Show me your stance.”

I enter the ox guard, left leg leading, blade horizontal next to my head.

“The Tower. Interesting.” She takes a slow walk around me, slightly adjusting my foot and finger placement. “Why that one?”

“It covers much of my body and gives me a good stab with a sudden boost of reach.” Such a move might give me the best shot if it ever comes down to sword against sword again. I’ve spent more time looking at the fencing manuals of Talhoffer and Lichtenauer than actually handling a real blade. I have much more practical experience with polearms thanks to my sport Jugger, but with how much of the coming battles will be in the close confines of dungeons and caves I judge that a route best not to take.

“Show me.”

I lunge and simultaneously stab at a slight downward angle, at the height where a man’s chest would be.

“Again.” I repeat the process and she adjusts my hand placement. “ Keep your back straighter when in the stance. Now again.”

We repeat the drill several more times until she draws her own, much larger sword. A somewhat familiar design, after the straight crossguard follows a leather wrapping, then a secondary smaller guard before the sharpened part of the blade begins. It is very similar to what the German Landsknechte used at the tail end of the middle ages, the blunt part after the crossguard providing an alternate way to wield it, more akin to a spear. “Now block.”

Her diagonal cut comes slow; she intends to train proper blade forms, not my reaction speed. “Watch the angle of your forearm, taking a strong blow like that would hurt your wrist.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

“Again!”

We keep going through guards, strikes and transitions for a sweat-breaking while, and the last part is where I am particularly lacking in ability. Reconstructing the lost skill of medieval European martial arts was a humongous effort for those interested in it and none of them had the luxury of a genuine (pseudo-)medieval warrior to train them.

Alas, the ministrations of said trainer are far from gentle. Once we finished drilling forms not quite to her satisfaction Uthgerd started going at me in earnest and I struggle to keep up as she strikes again and again, neither pausing to acknowledge my successful parries nor to let me recover from the times the flat of her blade strikes true. Sweat dampens my hair into strands clinging possessively to my skin and at some point I unconsciously switched to breathing through my mouth instead of the nose. Ralof watches with a deepening frown and after a particularly resounding blow he speaks up. “Go easy on him, we likely have some real fighting ahead of us tomorrow and we better all be in shape for it.”

“Don’t worry, I can heal,” I say between heaving breaths, blade held high in the guard she called The Anvil, matched by its downward strike The Hammer. Ralof probably expects me to be far more bruised and battered than I actually am; he has no way of knowing that the leather worn under my clothes through some physics-defying fuckery is close to equal to the much more cumbersome steel he wears himself. The leather greaves from the boots we took off one of the Imperial soldiers are on my shins, and the thick wool of a tan tabard closed in the front with three straps of darker leather reaches down to my knees. My overall look might not be colourful, but it is a far cry removed from the outright sinister mien of the Shrouded Armour alone. “And it’s not like Uthgerd would kill me in a training bout.”

Ralof keeps looking at me but then his eyes turn left, taking on a note of concern. “Uthgerd, are you alright?”

Her face is a rigid mask, twitching muscles betraying their desperate yearning to move but forcefully kept in line. I don’t know if it is anger, sorrow or something else, but it feels as if allowing her emotions to surface would lead to a dark path there is no turning back from. “I’m fine. Enough for today. I’ll go get water.” She stalks off to refill our skins, carefully turning to not let us see her expression.

Ralof and I exchange a silent look while the clangor of her step recedes. “You know what that was about?”

“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “I know her no better than you do.”

Despite everything, it is true. In the game Uthgerd had little dialogue and I didn’t talk to her again after coming through the Bannered Mare for the first time in my playthroughs. I once had her as a follower for a short while but that didn’t add any new dialogue options beyond the usual ‘Wait here so you don’t get in the way’ and ‘Carry this stuff I want to sell, also keep this single Dwarven arrow.’

These are real people and evidently I have run into a real issue unknown to me.

Uthgerd remains sullen for the rest of the evening, speaking little and neither of us considers it a good idea to pry into whatever demons beset her mind. By now I know how to tell the time from the positioning of the moons — plural — and it is clear she extended her watch far longer than she was supposed to.

Things seem back to normal the next day. I was wrong to tell Farengar that Riverwood is less than two days away; the constant uphill travel is far more taxing than my first journey along this road and the sun has dipped below the horizon by the time we arrive at Ralof’s hometown. But at least spending the night will ensure we are well rested for the trials ahead of us.

This time I decide to take a room in the inn to give Ralof some time to catch up with his sister, now he will be permanently placed nearby. Also, I’d rather not be around when she learns I dragged him away from his cushy job as ambassador to face the dangers of Bleak Falls Barrow. If our foray gets him killed I better relocate elsewhere. Senyndie said Hammerfell is lovely this time of year. Perhaps she’d take me along; the way she kept touching my arm when we sat next to each other in Candlehearth Hall definitely felt like a hint even while my mind was preoccupied with my recent vampiric encounter. But romance right now really is the least of my concerns.

I act as casual as I can around Delphine. The way her innwork keeps bringing her close to us after she learned we were sent by the Jarl to check up on the first group probably wouldn’t arouse suspicion if one doesn’t know about her true identity. We quickly confirmed they came through here and haven’t been heard from again after setting out for the barrow, and this time Lucan does ask us to retrieve his treasured claw, which I desperately hope to still find inside the ancient tomb.

Camilla turns out to be the last one to have seen the Jarl’s party, owing to some… unexpected circumstances. “They actually doubled back to return her to Riverwood when she went after them to come along, armed with naught but a dagger. Who knows what would have happened to my sister had they been less conscientious.”

She has wrinkles on her nose when she is angry; it is quite cute, but I refrain from saying so. “You can’t just wait for people to come through to do your work for you and then sit back. Sometimes you have to get out and make things happen.”

“Sorry Camilla, but I’m with Lucan on this one.” She looks at me with betrayal in her eyes, but I go on before she has a chance to object. “Bandits are dangerous, and they may well have gone down into the tomb which is even more so. That’s nothing one should go into without being well prepared, armed and armoured with good gear you know how to handle.”

“But… you had _nothing_ when you went through Helgen!”

“Yes, but I didn’t _choose_ to be there. I was thrust into this whole mess against my will.” And on a far more fundamental level than she will ever know. “Look Camilla, I can appreciate a bit of an adventurous spirit, but this isn’t the right way to start out. We’re here because this was too much for a group of soldiers hand-picked by the Jarl himself to handle. Walk before you run.”

She sighs in forlorn hope, but thankfully gives in to reason. “Fine. Maybe I’ll take some lessons first and go out hunting with Faendal if he gets over his heartbreak.”

Lucan opens his mouth to protest, but I give him a stern look and shake my head. Take the win buddy, this is the best you’re likely to get. You can’t tie your sister down forever if she’s yearning for excitement.

Interesting though that Faendal’s suitorship seemingly went down with all hands. I wonder what happened there.

Perhaps Camilla would have been less eager to come along if she knew how arduous the ascent is. With time the worn stone slabs of the road give way to hard earth and untamed autumn grass forming a steeply rising path only recognizable as such by virtue of being wedged between two stark cliff-sides, one rising up, the other hurtling into the fatal depths below. By noon we reach the snow-point and our world turns a barren white devoid of life. To the left are the crumbling remains of an old tower we find unoccupied but still stocked with some reasonably fresh supplies. Curious. We move on through the remains of a massive stone arch much older than the tower which nevertheless gave in to the gnawing teeth of time with far more reluctance. As we round the corner we leave the cover from the cold bite of the wind and sprays of white dust whip at our faces with a blinding fury. But even with our vision obscured the stark contrast between black stone and white snow is easy to make out. Bleak Falls Barrow lies before us.

The ancient burial site is massive. A row of arches similar to the first one leads up to the stairs running down the lowest part of the three-tiered structure, each one a platform with the same kind of pillar-supported triagonal running along its width, these ones crowned with several stone likenesses of birds’ heads. On the highest tier, a set of escalating arches sits over a similarly shaped antechamber penetrating into the edge of the mountain. And we are not alone.

The black wolves scurry away on our approach; they had plenty of time to eat their fill and no need to challenge fresh prey. Five bodies lie strewn over the cold stone, one of them a man in Whiterun colours. Whatever fight happened here, it must have been days ago. The blood that stained the virginal snow red is long since gone, the bodies frozen solid and savaged by a wolf’s hunger.

“They made it this far at least,” Uthgerd says as she checks on one of the bodies. “But it doesn’t look like they made it back out.” She tosses a leather pouch my way. My hand doesn’t succeed at the catch, but I manage to trap it with my forearm before it falls. Cold, hard coin. They took the fight inside and left the looting for later, which turned into never.

The massive metal gate yields to our push and we enter the antechamber, our senses immediately assailed by the horrible stench of decay. Scattered flecks of light fall through where holes in the ceiling contributed to the disarrayed clutter on the ground and I cast Magelight to allow us better vision. Uthgerd hisses out a curse. “Skeevers!”

A pack of the knee-high rodents is chittering away while they gnaw on a pair of human corpses next to a stone altar. I quickly drown the vermin in a stream of fire and their chittering turns into high-pitched shrieks of pain as their matte fur catches fire. They quickly scatter in the wind, with a few overeager ones going on the attack, but Ralof and Uthgerd make quick work of them. Uthgerd doesn’t even bother to draw, her sword much too large for this task, and instead stomps down on the ratkin with her steel-shod foot, crushing the creature with a wet squelch. “Ugh, disgusting. Couldn’t they have killed the last two outside as well?”

“Three actually, there’s another one over there,” Ralof says, pointing with his thumb. “And I don’t think they deliberately allowed the bandits to retreat into an enclosed space once they had overcome their numerical advantage.”

“I know, I know.” Her tone is about the phonetic equivalent of rolling your eyes. But I don’t think it is due to any vestigial edginess from that one evening’s training; bless her heart, Uthgerd has an abrasive streak to her at the best of times.

We move past a long since burned out cooking fire into the gaping maw of a corridor leading us down into the barrow proper. Again these spiral patterns on the coarse stone of the walls, the light of my spell giving them the colour of burnished gold. Thick roots and vines ate their way through the once pristine structure and several branching corridors lie in ruin as we slowly advance towards the belly of the beast. The clangor of our measured steps cuts through the ancient silence in this hall of the dead.

We find another Whiterun guard lying lifeless on the ground, but from the position of her body she seems to have been going the opposite way. Back towards the surface.

Uthgerd kneels down to examine the woman. “No weapon on her. Her neck and upper chest are eaten away, but it doesn’t look like skeever marks, more like some kind of burn.”

“Acidic venom,” I say. “She probably fled while it was still eating away at her body. It is quite unpleasant.”

Ralof groans. “Talos have mercy, again? I should have known the moment we passed through these cobwebs.”

Uthgerd shoots me a questioning look. “The frostbite spiders under Helgen. Turns out eight legs freak him out.”

“It’s the eyes actually,” Ralof corrects me with a resigned sigh. “Just too many of them.”

Uthgerd shrugs. The pauldrons of her armour settle back down with a metallic rattle. “Whatever. Too many legs, too many eyes or even heads, we’ll just cut them down to size.”

Well, at least she has a can-do attitude to her.

We pass unimpeded through the ‘riddle’ room with its gate standing open and past a spiral staircase leading us down a circular hole in the ground. Then with the cobwebs growing so thick they turn the entire wall a silky white we arrive at the sight Ralof has been dreading.

The massive spider, standing tall as a man even with its belly flat on the ground, lies dead. Its fearsome mandibles cut right through the left side of another of Balgruuf’s men like an oversized pincer, armour and all. Judging from the way the lower and upper part of him bend away from each other in a contortion no living body would manage it must have penetrated deep enough to sever the man’s spine. They fought their humongous foe to a draw. Several arrows dot its chitinous shell and one of its leading legs was lopped off close to the stem. The final warrior lies crushed under the massive body along with a sword buried up to its hilt in her arachnid foe. A fatal wound that liberally spilled the spider’s long since coagulated ichor over her remains. The woman’s steel armour wasn’t enough to stop the crushing weight of the beast’s bulk, but the expression on her face framed by dark brown hair braided on the left side is peaceful, as if saying ‘I got you too’.

Oh no. No no no…

“She one of the Jarl’s group too? She doesn’t wear Whiterun colours.”

“She is. Was. One of the Jarl’s retainers,” Ralof explains. “I think her name was… Linnea, Lidda or something like that.”

I desperately yearn to correct him, but I know I can’t. I’ve never met her real self, and yet seeing her lie dead before me due to my inaction makes the bile of guilt and sorrow claw its way up my throat. I delayed this foray to better prepare myself for this challenge, and she and her group ended up paying the price for my caution. My first housecarl, and my first follower in the game. Her story comes to a close here.

Rest easy, Lydia. You no longer need to carry my burdens.

“What’s that over there? Looks like someone was wrapped in a cocoon by the spider.” I welcome the distraction allowing me to hide my bout of grief as Ralof and Uthgerd approach the dead Dunmer hanging suspended in his silk confines. I don’t recall his name. Something the Swift. But rather Orother the Stupid. Real high IQ move there, charging ahead into the draugr-infested tomb on your lonesome with the man you just betrayed blocking the way back out.

With neither heroes to free him nor spider to eat him the poor fool must have died of thirst held in his helpless suspension. I certainly hold no fondness for the man, but he could have met with a less torturous end.

“Looks like this is the claw Lucan was talking about.” Ralof inspects the golden three-taloned object they had found after cutting down the body.

“It’s more than that,” I explain as I take the claw and hold up what would be its palm. “See those animal motifs there? This is a key, and the symbols tell the right sequence to open a door like with that gate room before. Just as the people of today the ancient Nords didn’t leave their treasures and secrets without lock and guard.”

“You really do know some things about all this,” Ralof comments. “Farengar ought to give you less lip, he learned about this Dragonstone only a little before you did and he had no caravan to guard and bandits to kill.”

“I’m all with you on the less lip part, but to be fair I only learned of the stone’s existence, I hadn’t found anything to link Ingmorn’s resting place here.”

“The name must have been lost long ago, in all the bedtime stories told of Bleak Falls Barrow I don’t recall once hearing of Ingmorn Frost-Reaver.”

I check the position of my silver bolts in the quiver; from here on out, draugr will be our enemies, but I can’t exactly advertise my foreknowledge by preemptively loading anti-undead ammunition so my first shot will be steel. As we delve ever deeper we come across the first rows of grave niches, these lying empty. It seems the Nord burial grounds were used from the bottom up and not filled to capacity. I notice with confusion the stone shape of a bird’s head jutting out from a pillar, a brazier hewn from the same stone resting on its top. A lit brazier. Does that mean the lighting in the dungeons wasn’t just a gameplay convenience and the draugr do actually work to maintain their dwellings, including the lighting?

Soon the graves come to be filled with more than empty air and dust, desiccated corpses lying flat on their back inside their little niche, hands folded on top of their chest. There is no easy tell which ones might be ambulatory and which are just a lifeless husk, save for the bodies reduced to a mere skeleton. Perhaps half of them were buried with some form of long since tarnished armour, but well less than that are female while the vast majority of bodies are male. That was the same in the game, but it does beg the question, wherever were the excess female bodies buried in those lost times?

The growing apprehension of my companions permeates the air so thickly it becomes almost tangible. Every single step feels like walking over an old hardwood floor at night, fearful for any creaking to violently tear through the silence. “Whatever else we might face down here, it will not be of the living,” comes Ralof’s hushed whisper.

Thanks for pointing it out, buddy. Now I can switch out my bolt.

Uthgerd raises her left hand and we come to a sudden stop. In the void left by the halt of our steps I can hear what attracted her attention. A throaty, inhuman groan that is all too familiar.

There. One of the bodies swings its legs down to the ground, coming to a sitting position with its chest bent forward. Its skin is leathery and gray, the body sinewy as if all its fat was burned away and only the muscle and bone remain. Circular bands of rusted iron cover the midsection of its chest and terminate in the sparse remains of tattered chain mail, but the upper part of its chest is unarmoured. I sight down my crossbow and pull back with index and middle finger into the trigger mechanism.

The draugr emits an unearthly shriek as if a lance of pure fire had been thrust into its body. Ralof rushes forward and chops his snake ax straight down into the helmet-less head. The ax bites through undecaying flesh and bone, then sheers off to the right to come out at a diagonal and separating a sizable chunk of the skull from the rest of the body. The malevolent blue embers burning brightly in the draugr’s eye sockets fade to nothingness and the creature crumbles to the ground, having met its final death.

It isn’t over. One, no, two more of them are joining the fray. The draugr climbing down from the upper row of grave niches has just touched the ground with one of its feet when Uthgerd barrels into it with a brutal shoulder check and she sends the undead flying away before it can find secure footing. Another squares off against Ralof and twice raps its sword against the boss of the round shield on its other hand, a gesture answered by Ralof in kind before they start exchanging blows. Shield and helmet leave me with no good shot with the crossbow I just finished reloading, so instead I release a stream of fire, aiming high for its head.

The draugr raises its shield to block my spell, but it obscures its vision for a critical moment. Ralof strikes low and obliterates the draugr’s knee joint left unprotected by its high guard. Its unlife ends shortly after.

Ralof breathes heavily from the short but intense fight. He reflexively brushes over his brow with the back of his hand but there is no sweat yet to wipe away. “Everyone alright?”

“All good here,” comes Uthgerd’s reply.

“Same,” I say while I work to retrieve my silver bolt. It penetrated deeply so I carefully push it further through to pull the projectile from the resulting exit wound on its back, mindful of not breaking the shaft of my precious ammunition. “Let’s try something different for the next ones.”

“What do you have in mind?”

I hold up one of the Molotov flasks and turn my wrist left and right, making the contained liquid slosh with the motion.

o-o-o-o

“ _This_ is how you fight?” Uthgerd’s disbelieving outburst has a clear note of disapproval.

The ablaze draugr shuffles forward slowly, dragging its left leg caught in the maw of a bear trap. No need to waste a bolt; I casually walk backwards and it isn’t long until the undead collapses to its hands and knees, and soon enough it crumbles completely.

“Well, it works.” I poke the draugr’s head with the tip of my sword to confirm its destruction. “They’re somewhat intelligent, but not savvy enough to suspect a trap beneath some of the plentiful linen found around here. And so far they haven’t demonstrated ranged capability so we can just wait them out while they burn.” Draugr archers should be rare, though the stronger ones can have spells and even Shouts.

“It feels somewhat… cowardly.”

“Show me the coward who of his own volition organizes a raid of this crypt and I’ll empty a barrel of Honeybrew in one sitting or die trying.”

She snorts, but doesn’t object to my assessment. “Fine. What would you call it then.”

I mull this over for some seconds. “How about… crafty. Give me the choice between fighting hard and fighting smart, and I’ll take smart any time of the day.”

“Uthgerd, I know this isn’t the way we are used to fighting, but it works.” Ralof puts a hand on her pauldroned shoulder. “If not for this our group would likely have suffered many more dead at Valtheim. I trust your weapon arm as much as my own, and I’ve come to trust Reinhardson’s head when it comes to things like this.”

“If it makes you feel better, I probably didn’t bring enough flasks to last us through the entire barrow,” I say with a teasing smirk. “Bethesda has his limits too.”

Yeah, I just couldn’t resist naming the mule thusly.

We make our way past several more draugr and a pressure plate trap until we come to a short narrowing of the corridor with a row of three massive ax blades attached to wooden beams swinging left and right through fitted gaps in the walls. If only I had already learned Telekinesis it would be so easy to pull the chain on the other side that deactivates the mechanism. I contemplate whether it would be possible to shoot a thin rope attached to a bolt through the chain’s ring, but the window of time is tight and the shot rather difficult.

There is enough of an interval between each blade’s passing to successively step past them, but with the slightest mistiming spelling serious injury or death the idea feels far more daunting than in the game. Perhaps more importantly, it would just be too convenient a place for an ambush, the first of us coming through isolated from the others with no path of retreat. In the end we decide to simply brute-force the trap; a draugr’s iron shield wedged between wall and wooden beam at the very top is enough to stop the forbidding blade dead in its tracks, close to the fulcrum where the force exerted by the pendulum’s swing is smallest. Then it is just a matter of cutting through the timber, and Ralof as it happens is no stranger to the work of a lumberjack.

We fight past several more draugr, including two standing upright in a pair of alcoves flanking the path. It makes me think of Borg drones, the way they are on stand-by motionless with their backs perfectly straight, only to snap awake when an intruder passes too close. At Ralof’s silent urging I stand back and let Uthgerd have her fun, crossbow trained on the undead to intervene should things go awry. I needn’t have worried; she’s more than skilled, well armoured and the corridor opened up a bit in this part, giving her enough room to wield her greatsword properly. I couldn’t have asked for a starker contrast to exhibit our difference in character, Uthgerd deliberately seeking the thrill of danger and battle while my approach is methodical and cautious, seeking to already have won each engagement before it even starts.

Much as I admire Rommel’s daring attacks, I have always been more of a Manstein type of guy.

The path leads us downward into what seems to be the main section of the burial grounds. After each set of niches in the walls comes a new corridor branching left and right, likewise fitted with myriad resting places. My nerves are taut with the rising tension as with every step the number of bodies in our back grows, unspeakable danger surrounding us like a hundredfold coiled vipers ready to strike. Their numbers might go into the thousands and as we pass by there is no telling which ones might be animated by the spark of unlife. “I don’t like this. We could get swarmed from the front, back, left and right at any moment and I don’t yet see an end of this.”

This time wet is glistening on Ralof’s brow, but it is the cold sweat of unease, not exertion. “I know. Perhaps we should put down a pair of bear traps to at least cover our back a little.”

I silently agree and kneel down to place the traps. As I get ready for the second one a sudden motion in the deceptive dormancy shoots into my field of view with a cold, gray hand wrapping around my wrist. I fall back on my ass and the sound that escapes my throat is neither coherent nor masculine. A flash of steel separates the grasping arm from its body and I desperately claw at the severed limb to pry it loose. Even in death its grip withstands me until I recover my focus enough to rotate my forearm to get the leverage for a simple wrist escape instead of just futilely tugging at the dead flesh.

More bodies have begun to stir around us and I quickly go for my crossbow, still in a sitting position. The silver bolt impales a helmet-less head and the female draugr falls back down before it had finished crawling out of its niche, rolling down onto the floor with one of its legs still up in its resting place. Two more draugr come my way from the path we just walked, these ones fitted with armour and helmet. After regaining my feet I walk backwards while resetting the lever of the crossbow, controlling my breathing and fighting back down the fear unfolding its sinister wings in my chest. It’s do or die and panicking would leave no hope of the former.

My next bolt takes flight but I aimed too low and it hits the chest piece. The projectile bounces off the discoloured iron and clatters to the floor. I can only assume Uthgerd and Ralof have their hands full as well and I can’t avoid melee now with two draugr closing in on me and too little time for even one more shot even by the most optimistic estimate.

Instead I abandon the crossbow and ready myself to cast Oakflesh to brave close combat and at least hold out long enough for my companions to intervene, who from the sound of grunts and clashing metal behind me are likewise engaged. A shiver runs over my skin as the oppressive air constricts around me like a noose covering every inch of my skin. The closer of the draugr rushes in and swings its long sword wide to disrupt my casting. I instead raise my arms out of the way of the oncoming blade to finish the spell and shift into a wider stance to brace for the impact. With three layers of defence, Stormcloak cuirass, Shrouded Armour and hardwood skin, the rust-flecked weapon is stopped cold, reduced to the equivalent of a solid punch instead of cutting through my body. With the sudden rebound of its swing the draugr warrior comes off-balance and I step in to push with all my body against its armoured chest. My push forces the draugr to stumble back, one, two feet, and the sound of the bear trap clamping shut around its leg might be the sweetest music I have heard in my entire life. The undead loses its balance completely and topples to the floor. I removed this one from the fight at least for a little while.

The next draugr is upon me and I have time enough to draw my sword, hoping desperately it will do me better than against the Imperial officer. Our exchange is quick and furious and the blue-eyed spectre scores two hits for each of mine, but I have unarmoured dead flesh to strike at while every part of my body except for the face has a layered defence. I reach into the pouch at my hip to bring things to a close when a mighty blow impacts the bracer on my left arm where the Stormcloak armour doesn’t reach and if the hideous crack isn’t hint enough that something was broken the intense pain exploding within me certainly is. Pulling my hand back out and whipping it forward makes a thousand tiny daggers of agony stab at me but it is worth it. The draugr recoils when the silver dust blankets its face, uncertain steps and hunched over posture betraying it has been temporarily blinded. I line up the finishing blow and hit the neck with all my strength. The sword half cuts through the spine and half breaks it from the raw force of the impact, but the result is all the same. No longer supported by more than haggard flesh the head lolls forward in an unnatural angle. Its horned helmet comes loose and hits the ground a moment before the perished draugr does likewise.

“Reinhardson, switch!” Ralof makes for the first draugr that had just returned to its feet and looking back I see the reason for his call-out. Uthgerd is desperately holding on to a defeated draugr she is using as cover against a stream of white frost projected from the outstretched palm of another wight several meters outside her striking range. I pick up my crossbow and aim for the unarmoured lower body, concerned with nothing but scoring a hit to grant the beleaguered warrior reprieve. The unintentional groin shot would be ghastly to a living man, but even to the draugr the sudden invasion of cleansing silver is enough to disrupt concentration and cease its magical assault. Uthgerd pushes away her cover and charges in, a furious cry on her lips as she brings her greatsword down with a murderous chop that is all force and no grace. The draugr is split open from neck to sternum, steel blade cutting several inches deep into the iron bands that futilely tried to protect its wearer.

The roar of battle fades into the laboured breathing left in its wake, each of us too shaken by the close fight to say anything. I quickly start healing my arm wound while Uthgerd and Ralof do the same by virtue of potions. The cloth of my gambeson hangs loose where the draugr cut a long gash into my armour, busting the chain links beneath but not succeeding at piercing the Shrouded Armour as well. Next time I enter the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary I’ll bring a cake. Does chocolate exist around here?

Uthgerd keeps rotating her left shoulder with some difficulty. The pauldron covering it was bent deeply by a telling blow, the stout steel plate almost folded in half. There is no recourse but to remove the pauldron for now, leaving her a little less protected but with much more vital freedom of movement. “That one was strong, I think it snapped my collarbone even through the armour. Last time I took a blow like that was from a troll. And it knew the Tongue, almost blowing me off my feet with a mere word.”

I look down at the draugr that had its face reduced to a smashed ruin, perhaps from a pommel strike. Its hand is still wrapped around a two-handed bearded ax. What were the draugr with Thu’um called again, wight, scourge?

The mass collection of graves soon comes to a blessed end and we get through the rest of the barrow without another such viper’s den, our back secure in the remaining confrontations with much sparser numbers of draugr. Only a pair of the undead bursting from upright sarcophagi and supported by an archer on an elevated position posed a serious threat, but it too fell although it consumed much of my magicka to occupy it with magical fire until Ralof could claim the stairs. At last we come to a long passageway that terminates in a familiar door with concentric circles radiating from the middle, the central one fitted with a trio of indentations to insert the golden claw in.

The final guardian awaits. And with it, the answer to which role I will play in the doom befalling this world.


	6. Destiny Writ in Cuneiform

The ornate wall carvings flanking the path would be certain to seize my attention for a while if the nervous anticipation spreading a queasy feeling through my body weren’t impervious to any lesser distractions. Just one more door separates us from the Word Wall and its ancient protector, a fearsome warrior in whose shadow the lesser draugr are but hesitant raindrops to herald the coming storm. Getting ragdolled into a wall by the full three syllables of a Fus Ro Dah must be like getting hit by a car — which, granted, I survived without debilitating injury, but that was a testament less to any unnatural toughness on my part than sheer luck.

“Say, Uthgerd, why don’t you use a helmet?”

She gives me a grim look before deigning to answer. “It makes their target predictable and such a small area is easy to cover. If you leave a man with no place to effectively strike at he will become unpredictable instead of facing you blade to blade.”

I guess that is why she is no stranger to grappling. Still, while her explanation does make sense on some level, I can’t bring myself to believe that _not_ protecting your most vital spot is ever supposed to constitute an advantage in battle. “If you say so. Just be careful, if one of the draugr had the Voice their leader is likely to do so too, and it might succeed where the other failed at blowing you off your feet. So watch your head if you ever get flung around like a Tosser’s Stone.” A popular game reminiscent of Viking Chess I had learned with the caravan; three circles in the center you have to land a stone in, successful hits from both competitors canceling each other out. Once you have seized control of all three you can try the more difficult shot at the circle on your opponent’s baseline, symbolizing their castle. A no-budget pastime that can be played pretty much anywhere.

I give it some more time to let my magicka fully recuperate, then it is time to whisper ‘Open Sesame’. The three outer rings marked with pictographs of animals, bear, moth and owl, turn easily with a small effort of strength before coming to a sudden stop, then the internal mechanism takes over and the ring rotates with a grinding of stone on stone until it locks into the next position. It looks simple, but I bet an engineer could spend joyful hours taking this thing apart to figure out its hidden workings.

The points of the golden claw insert neatly into the three central openings and I unlock the gate standing undisturbed for millennia. A rattle goes through its unseen inner parts, then the whole thing slowly retracts into the ground.

A wall of cool, fresh mountain air hits us like a blacksmith’s hammer after the musty scent of an ancient grave site. Timeless Nord craftsmanship gives way to a spacious cave soaring hundreds of feet high to a wide crack permitting entry to the warm light of the sun. A steep waterfall flings its contents into these depths. Its spray fills the air with tiny droplets that occasionally find us even far away from their source.

The jagged half-circle of the Word Wall dominates the chamber and the steps of my companions naturally gravitate towards it. The black sarcophagus at the top of the wall’s platform draws Ralof’s eye. “Think that is where Ingmorn rests?”

“Must be.” By now we are no stranger to draugr bursting from such sarcophagi, but I’m still glad for any occasions where the people around me figure things out for themselves and I don’t have to test the limits of my foreknowledge’s believability. “Let’s prepare him a warm welcome.” I’m down to three silver bolts; one had its tip irrevocably bent when impacting on unyielding armour, two more suffered broken shafts from the fall of the draugr they had hit. But I still have a few Molotovs, the bear traps were recovered after each use, I have Oakskin already cast and every one of us has potions ready to stay in the fight. We are as well prepared as we can hope to be.

But what drives a cold steel spike through my heart is something no amount of preparation could have averted.

“No… Why…” My hands claw futilely at the draconic runes dotting the Word Wall, my mind heedless of the painful strain the fingernails under my gloves suffer on the rough surface. It was all for nothing. I am not the Dragonborn.

My forehead comes to rest against the cold, hard stone. I am a common man trying to face down a challenge not meant for mere mortals. Alduin is getting ready to consume the world like Fenrir swallowing up the sun, and I am powerless to stop him.

I have lost.

The black emptiness before my closed eyelids is dispelled by blue fire.

“Ragnar, come back here, something is wrong with Ralof and he won’t snap out of it.” For the very first time since I met her Uthgerd’s voice betrays true concern instead of her trademark harsh attitude.

I turn around. Ralof’s eyes are transfixed, empty hand reaching out for the blazing outlines of the draconic runes of the Word Wall, his entranced body slowly inching forward towards the sole beacon of light in his clouded vision.

Fuck. Me.

A crack pierces through my shocked paralyzation, followed by the resounding impact of sveral hundred pounds of stone hitting the ground. The sarcophagus lies open and its guardian has awoken from its timeless slumber, the weighty stone lid tossed aside with almost careless ease. Spiral patterns adorn the chest plate and bulky pauldrons covering its body, and the bonfire of rage blazing in its eye sockets burns brighter than on any of the lesser draugr seen before. Its first leg finds the ground, avoiding the bear traps deliberately or by luck, and Uthgerd moves to engage before the draugr lord can come upright. " **Fus**..."

My eardrums thrum with the raw power filling the air with the oppressive anticipation of its unleashing, then the draugr that once was Ingmorn Frost-Reaver completes the Thu’um and the very world shakes in the gale of his will. " **Ro Dah**!"

The Unrelenting Force sends Uthgerd flying. Her legs clip the unwalked stairs leading up, whereupon her body spins out of my sight. I take aim with my crossbow. The guardian’s armour and helmet leave me a narrower target than the previous draugr but we are close enough for me to confidently take the shot. The silver bolt soars towards the undead lord who raises its weapon and with a movement that somehow is both casual and fleet blocks the projectile’s path with the head of the ax. A head that runs over two feet’s length along the edge, raw blackness that shimmers with the incoming rays of light like a wet stone at the edge of a river bed.

FUCK. ME.

The crescent of the Word Wall in my back gives me far too little room to retreat into and line up another likely futile shot. Only the leisurely gait of the draugr lord closing in on me saves me from assured destruction. I fumble the reload and draw a bolt of common steel from the quiver instead of wasting further precious seconds rummaging for one of the remaining silver bolts marked with an x indentation on their end. I aim for the lower body where the draugr’s armour is sparser, but the shot only ends up grazing the cadaverous gauntness of its leg instead of hitting head on. The resulting long gash doesn’t inhibit our unbleeding foe in the slightest.

Ralof — no, the Dragonborn — has finally recovered his wits and faces down the undead scourge. His strikes are quicker but lack reach and fail to connect with more than bracers coarse with rust as the draugr lines up its own attack. The Stormcloak blocks with the steel shield inherited from Mascius who died at Valtheim, but this is no mere man, and its weapon no common steel. The ebony ax impacts the rim of the shield and parts its lesser metal like a ship’s bow passing through water. The blade comes to a stop almost halfway through the shield’s width and only the lack of a cry of pain reveals it didn’t bite deep enough to cut into Ralof’s arm as well. Undaunted by the display of inhuman might he reacts swiftly and twists his shield arm counter-clockwise to wrest the trapped ax from the draugr’s grasp, but its titanic strength can not be overcome. It rips the blade free and in the same motion hits Ralof with the lower end of its handle hard enough to send the Nord flying with a hollow gasp as the air is forcefully expelled from his lungs.

Cold sweat tickles my skin but I resist the urge to wipe it away. The disruption at the onset of the fight prevented us from coordinating our attacks and we keep confronting the undead husk of Ingmorn one by one like stupid movie villains. But at least the draugr cleared my field of fire for an attack it can not so easily block.

Glass shatters and armour that hasn’t known the touch of oil for longer than most cities stand becomes slick with it. Thin rivulets of the liquid run down the wight’s body and drip to the ground. My flame follows without delay and the blue fire of its eyes is subsumed by the red eating away at its dead flesh with all-consuming hunger.

“ **Diin**.” The draugr lowers its head and a puff of white winter’s chill runs down its body. The flames are extinguished mere moments after they came to be.

This world really ought to buy me dinner and some flowers first before fucking me like that.

Uthgerd rejoins the fight with murder in her eyes, bruised and battered from her forceful flight but not showing any sign of slowing down. She is grabbing the greatsword above the crossguard, trading a shortening of her reach for providing her with a stronger lever to compete against the sheer power of the draugr lord. I use the distraction to escape the confines of the Word Wall and project a burst of flame whenever the two combatants are far enough apart to not risk literal friendly fire. Their exchange is relentless and each clash leaves a deep gouge in Uthgerd’s less durable edge, putting a strict limit on how long she can keep this up. A glancing blow from the ebon blade rakes over the armour of her left arm with the angry screech of fingernails running over a chalkboard and before the wight can recover from its swing she steps back and thrusts her blade into the pit of its stomach. Irrespective of all the strength put into her attack the sword penetrates only a few inches deep into undead flesh instead of running the draugr through, but she keeps on pushing. Her trusted weapon sinks further millimeter by millimeter with the pertinacious effort of an ant forcing its way through molasses. A backhand punch snaps her face to the side with a spray of blood and she falls back, the crash of her armour followed by the lesser impact of a small object hitting the stone and bouncing twice before coming to a rest. One of her teeth.

“Ingmorn Frost-Reaver!” There is enough left of the ancient warrior in the unlife animating its body to recognize the name it once claimed as its own. The draugr stops its advance on the incapacitated Uthgerd and turns towards me. The conflagration of blue in its eyes meets the still human blue of my own. “ **Fus** … **Ro Dah**!”

I dive behind the cover of the sarcophagus as soon as the wight speaks the first syllable of the Thu’um. Its ceaseless push sends a distorted ripple through the air above me but leaves my body untouched. I immediately come back up and hit the undead scourge with another Molotov and burst of flame. I must trust that Shouts still have a cooldown, a pause for the user to recuperate until they once again have enough power to bend reality to their will with a mere word. This time the undying guardian makes no move to immediately extinguish the ravenous dance licking at its desiccated flesh. Ralof seizes the opening and his ax bites into the dead skin between neck and pauldron, making our implacable foe stagger for the first time. It turns to face Ralof and I smash my final Molotov against its back where it alights from the fire of the first one; even if the draugr’s frost breath smothers the flame again, it can’t reach its own back. “Don’t let him Shout, if he starts to speak interrupt at all costs!”

Uthgerd is likewise back on her feet and for the first time we stand united against the keeper of the Dragonstone. A few splashes of the Molotov have hit Ralof’s scarred shield but he pays no heed to the flame as he squares up against the alight draugr lord standing in our midst. We can do this. We can overcome this overpowering fiend.

o-o-o-o

We never had a chance.

Uthgerd’s blade lies shattered next to her body that is hanging on by a mere thread to her title of the Unbroken. Ralof is on his hands and knees. He futilely tries to push himself back up, but his left foot bent in an unnatural angle can’t support his weight. A few flames still ravage the back of the draugr lord, the white bone of its left shoulder blade exposed where my anachronistic concoction ate through gray skin and flesh, but it wasn’t enough.

And as for me, I am currently experiencing distinctly non-erotic asphyxiation, the steel vise of the wight’s hand wrapped around my throat and suspending me in the air. It could crush my neck like an overripe fruit with the most casual ease, but the fell creature seems to take some perverse pleasure in slowly bleeding the life out of the mortals who dared interrupt its eternal sleep.

I choke out a laugh, in spite of everything. At last, the indomitable guardian has made a mistake. “Yol… Toor Shul.”

The creature that once was Ingmorn Frost-Reaver cocks its head to the side as it regards me in befuddled curiosity, recognizing the words of the Shout but no fiery breath comes forth.

My left hand stabs a silver bolt into the side of its throat with all the desperate strength left in my body.

The undead husk of a once renowned warrior, his deeds forgotten, the clan he founded long since come to ruin, shrieks in unearthly agony as liquid fire courses through a body that hasn’t known the touch of sunlight, pain or pleasure since time immemorial. I hit the ground hard when the draugr lord lets go of me to rip away the source of its torment and I immediately kick at the likewise dropped ax to bring it out of easy reach of its master.

Still on my back I slowly crawl away from the inexorably advancing wight, the scene reminiscent of the bandit at Valtheim who was fooled by Jolgeir’s cheeky bluff. The death staring its hatred down at me though is very much real.

But that’s why I brought friends. “End of the line, asshole.”

Ralof slams against the back of the draugr and wraps it in a Full Nelson with his gauntleted hands clasped in its neck. A grimace of unspeakable pain warps his face from standing on a broken ankle, but neither this nor the still-burning flames on the draugr’s back pushing into him break his resolve. The draugr lord tries to bring its restrained arms forward and Ralof’s armour groans under the strain. The Full Nelson is a secure hold, but this monstrosity’s supernatural strength might just outright snap the arms of the one holding it down.

Uthgerd drives the draugr’s own ax into its midsection, the monumental clash of metal tolling judgment bells that announce the end of Ingmorn’s eternal watch. She draws back to strike again and the draugr’s lifeless lower body crumbles to the ground. In defiance to all the laws of nature the fiend still doesn’t relinquish its hold on the unholy spark animating it, but then the moment passes and the bonfire of its eyes fades to a mere glimmer and then at last empty nothingness.

Dead and living alike hit the ground, heavy breaths heaving out our exhaustion. It takes me an indeterminate amount of time until I find the strength to speak. “Everyone got enough potions left?”

“I could use another, I only had one left after healing from my involuntary flight.”

I set one of the ruby containers on the ground and send it gliding towards Uthgerd. Always looked so easy when a barkeep did that with a glass in a Wild West movie. Well, it wasn’t as graceful, but at least it got within her reach.

She swallows heavily; it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if her jaw was broken. I sit up when I hear her hiss out a curse. “Kynareth’s cunt, a little more and I would have split you up too.”

My eyes follow the direction of her shocked stare to find a wide horizontal gash running through Ralof’s armour. But he just laughs, a pleasant sound likely never heard before in this forgotten hall. “I would have forgiven you with my dying breath. It would have been worth it, it was either taking that swing or all of us dying. You saved us back there.”

“I couldn’t have done it if you didn’t hold him down or if Ragnar hadn’t disarmed him.”

I smile the relief of someone who just had an unspeakable weight removed from their shoulders. “It was a team effort folks.” I learned a while back that ‘guys’ isn’t gender-neutral around here when addressing a group. Well, whatever.

I carefully scrutinize Ralof, the Nord warrior ignorant of the Tohu wa-bohu of myriad thoughts running amok in my mind. He is the Dragonborn of legend. The last of his kind, foretold champion of this era destined to face the World Eater himself. So Alduin’s attack wasn’t a coincidence. He must be able to sense the fragments of divine Akatosh in each of his bloodkin as well as the Dragonborn. That also explains how he is able to find their burial mounds to whisper fresh life into the dormant shards of the Divine. Can he distinguish the fragments or did he just go for the nearest one when his plunge through the fabric of time brought him to an alien world where only three of his shard-brothers remained active, and then filled the air above Helgen with his rage when there he found none of his ilk?

This… this changes everything. I don’t have the power to win this war, but it is within easy reach. You be the inspiring hero of the mortal races Ralof, just let me be the man behind you who guides your step. Be the Naruto to my Shikamaru. The Frankish king to my majordomo. What Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark should have been.

The King Bradley to my Father.

Our contemplative quiet is broken by Uthgerd. “What in Oblivion happened back there Ralof? You were completely out of it.”

“I… I don’t know.” His eyes look in the direction of the Word Wall with the uncertainty of a pupil giving a book report after only skimming the Wikipedia article. “There was this sound in my head, like the beat of a drum, only the drum was my very soul. And all I saw was white fire burning into my eyes. It was like that moment after coming awake from a dream, when the memory feels like it is still in your grasp before slipping away, only stretched into an eternity. And then… then my grasp tightened, and I understood.”

I can’t say why, but his description puts an uneasy knot in my stomach. His words feel too real. “What did it say Ralof?”

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, taking a moment to focus his mind before intoning the familiar lines. “Here lies The Guardian, keeper of the Dragonstone and a _force_ of eternal rage and darkness.”

The way he says the word makes a cold shiver run down my spine. Judging from Uthgerd’s wide-eyed stare she must have felt it too.

“Come, Ralof.” I stand up and lead him to the Word Wall. “Can you read that?”

His brow scrunches up as he regards the four lines of cuneiform-esque indentations in the stone. “This means nothing to me. What is this?”

“This is the language of dragons. You can’t read it, but in your vision, or whatever we shall call it, you _understood_ its meaning. The Guardian. The Dragonstone. This text here commemorates Ingmorn Frost-Reaver.”

Uthgerd has joined us, but she is no less perplexed than Ralof himself. “What does this mean, why did he see that but neither of us did?”

I came so far, I might as well take the plunge now. Mirmulnir’s attack on Whiterun might be linked to the retrieval of the Dragonstone or the activation of this Word Wall, but if not I cannot wait for a chance encounter with another dragon to get the pieces in place for my gambit. “You remember that prophecy Jarl Ulfric recited? The World Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns on the Last Dragonborn. It is you. That dragon is indeed Alduin, first-born of Akatosh, and the attack on Helgen wasn’t random. He was looking for you, Ralof.”

The Guardian may as well have slain us all judging from the dead silence left in the wake of my declaration, and it is dispelled not by a whisper but with the vehemence of a tank blast. “You can’t be serious!”

The argument lasts a while longer and only the passage of time smoothing the initial shock and studying the foretellings inside the Book of the Dragonborn let Ralof grudgingly accept the truth of my words. Uthgerd was quicker to convince, but I can’t blame Ralof for his reluctance; he just learned he is mythical Atlas, whose strength must hold up the very skies. “Do you think the Snow Tower refers to Skyrim? ‘Sundered, kingless, bleeding’ would fit the civil war after Torygg’s death.”

I nod; her assessment is more than sensible. “That looks right. If these points are chronological it fits, before the return of Alduin but after the end of the Dragonborn Septim dynasty.”

Ralof stands distant with his back to us, letting the spray of the clear waterfall drench his face with its cleansing tears. We give him a few more minutes to recuperate, then slowly walk up to him. “Those people at Helgen, they died because of me…”

I wince. That line was ill-advised in retrospect. “No, Ralof. They died because the doom trying to swallow up this world wanted to extinguish the one thing that can stop it. If Alduin represents death and despair then the Last Dragonborn represents hope, a hope for a tomorrow that is still to come. I know this is a near impossible burden to bear, but destiny didn’t choose you for nothing. Martin Septim was a simple priest, but when the hand of fate reached out he became the champion who saved us all. And I believe you can be the same, Ralof.” I quickly banish the thought of going for Gurren Lagann’s ‘don’t believe in yourself, believe in me who believes in you’. “You may think yourself a simple man and for now it may remain true, but I also know you have a heart that is unwavering and filled with resolve to seek better for all people, whether friend or stranger. And that is the kind of person who should wield this power.”

“I was looking at Jarl Ulfric to do that. He is the man with vision, and the magnetism to rally people to his banner. It should have been him. He learned the Thu’um, and he knows the prophecies even better than you do.”

This time it is me who puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Ulfric has his own war to fight. The Dragonborn of old were Emperors, but the Last Dragonborn is meant to be a warrior, not a ruler. And talk yourself down as much as you want, you cannot deny that you are a true Nord warrior. Unless there are spiders of course.”

He chuckles with the hesitance of the sun first cresting the horizon, the gloom engulfing him slowly crumbling away. “I guess the world can be lucky after all that Alduin is the spawn of Akatosh instead of Mephala.”

We get ready to move on, though I spend some time copying down the scripture on the wall. Not quite enough to serve as a Rosetta Stone, but it will do as a starting point. In the game it was a simple letter substitution into the Latin alphabet, and the grammar was primitive. I think it was a functional language to the creators’ credit, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the obsessive effort Tolkien put into his language construction. The only other thing I know of that might come close was the Game of Thrones TV adaptation which employed a professional linguist to design its fictional tongues.

I’ll see soon enough whether this language here was uplifted into something more complex than the game showed.

We have no choice but to come back once more with a small cart after our return to Riverwood so we can transport all the bodies of the Jarl’s party. Nord custom doesn’t allow us to just leave them to the skeevers and wolves. And even if it did, that is not a fate I could permit for Lydia. Perhaps it isn’t fair to care so much more for her than the other three just because they previously were nothing more than generic, nameless NPCs to me, here in this world they had friends and family all the same. But a bias in favour of the people we know is probably as old as humanity itself. However long that might be.

And as for the bandits? Fuck them. Let the animals sate their hunger. Perhaps it will even save a hapless traveler from a wolf attack.

On our final return to the riverside town we abruptly cross paths with a familiar, clean-shaven face that is no less surprised by the encounter than we are. The man immediately draws the blade at the belt above his Imperial uniform, and the four soldiers accompanying him follow suit without delay. “Ralof! To think you actually dare to come back after escaping at Helgen.” Hadvar pulls his right foot back into a deep stance, but then his determined anger is supplanted by puzzlement. “… Why are you wearing Whiterun colours?”

“Stand back citizen!” I step in front of Ralof before he decides on a more forceful response and thrust our mandate bearing a red wax seal depicting the profile of a horse’s head in Hadvar’s face. “We are here on authority of Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun.”

“ _What_.” The Imperial officer looks at the document with dumbstruck expression, weapon arm sinking limply to his side. “Bleak Falls? What does this mean?”

“It means if you interfere in our task we have the legal power to have you arrested by the garrison stationed here,” Ralof explains. He desperately tries to hold back the impudent grin that wants to erupt on his face.

Poor Hadvar is at a loss for words, mouth agape. At last he sheathes his sword, shortly followed by the soldiers behind him with the same uncertainty he showed. A flicker of recognition flits over his face when he looks up from the mandate that won’t change its contents, no matter how hard he stares at it. “You, you are Ragnar Reinhardson.”

Now it is my turn to be taken aback in surprise. “I am. I’m surprised you remember my name.”

“I… I committed it to memory.” He looks away, not able to meet my eyes. “If I let an innocent man be executed I should at least do that much.”

“Cold comfort.” Uthgerd gives him a derisive sneer. “So you felt bad about it, but evidently not enough to do anything about it. At best fitful turning for a night or two if they went through with it.”

“Well, I’ll at least give you credit for not liking your orders, but she’s quite right. Tullius was right there, you could have appealed to him and the worst thing you would have risked was a reprimand and some ill will from that captain.” The horrors of the Nazi regime have taught my world that ‘I was just following orders’ is not a valid excuse to justify murder and its gruesome ilk, although it sometimes feels like that important lesson ends up forgotten way too often, even by the very people who invoked it at the Nuremberg Trials. “Now, _citizen_ , if there is nothing else you better be on your way.”

“For someone who is innocent you’re awfully comfortable in rebel company,” one of the soldiers can’t help but interject, earning himself a harsh glare from Hadvar.

“Well isn’t that shocking, who would have guessed someone decided to go with the people who saved his life instead of the ones who wanted to cut his head off for no good reason.”

That shut him up good. Hadvar herds his soldiers away before they could make any more ill-advised comments. He occasionally throws a halting look over his shoulder but they end up retreating without further barbs exchanged.

“Well, that was... something.” I can’t fault Ralof for his lack of eloquence. ‘Something’ feels a quite apt descriptor for what just transpired here.

I speak the sentence that has become all too familiar in the preceding weeks. “I could use a drink right now.”

o-o-o-o

“I tried to join the Companions once.” Uthgerd’s declaration comes without preamble. Her eyes are downcast, seeking the bottom of her cup with the desperate longing of a diver who knows he will not break the surface in time.

A flicker of memory claws at my mind, its desperate plea to be let in a faint echo.

Ralof gives her a confused look. “Tried? They are a formidable bunch, but I can’t imagine you falling short of their standards. You are one of the best I have ever seen, friend and foe alike.”

A forlorn sigh escapes her lips. “If only they knew that, the boy would still be alive.” The glass wall holding back long-forgotten memory shatters. “They put me up against a little whelp to test me. I bristled at the insult and with each of his clumsy strikes and parries I grew more angry. I snapped, I wanted to show them how much stronger I am so they never debased me like that again. He died. I didn’t want for it to happen, but it did.”

I desperately wish I knew what to tell her. A simple ‘it wasn’t your fault’ is the first thing that comes to mind, but it’s just a platitude. And sometimes, we don’t want to be absolved for the things we have done. We want to feel bad for the hurt we have caused, but still find a way to carry on.

“What was his name?” Ralof turns out faster than me in finding a response.

She seems surprised by the question. “Nielik, why?”

“I think Hadvar was right about that at least. We should remember the names of those whose guilt we carry with us, even if we didn’t hurt them by choice.”

I pick up where he left off. “If you want to make amends, maybe look to his family. You killed him by accident, but we still feel bad for the things we did even if it wasn’t deliberate. It’s the people who hurt without reason or regret who deserve scorn, and I know you are not one of those.”

She is silent for a long while and neither Ralof nor I opt to rush her. “I never dared seek out his family, but maybe I should. At least make sure the ones he left behind do not go hungry. And whatever anger they want to throw at me, I shall bear it.”

Our table remains a beacon of stillness in the tavern, but I think our bearish friend may have found the resolve to seek closure for the anger and guilt eating at her mind.

o-o-o-o

High up on the snow-clad mountains, in a cave unwalked by mortal steps, twin eyelids covering an orange orb split by a slitted pupil snap awake. **“Dovahgolz gahrotaan!”** [The Dragonstone has been stolen!]


	7. Through the Fire and Flames

Uthgerd has put a sizable chunk of dark cheese on a slice of thick-crusted bread, ready to take the first bite out of her meal, when I interrupt.

“Don’t eat that.”

She pulls her hands away and protectively cradles their contents at her side, giving me a reproachful look as if I just tried to rip away her infant firstborn.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh heavily. “Have a little faith. I’ll give it back, promise.”

Still reluctant about parting with her meager breakfast she complies at last. I put the incomplete sandwich in our pan and slice a second piece of bread to place on top, then a slight drizzle of oil on either side — an actual drizzle, not a Gordon Ramsay drizzle. Finally, with my Flames spell at a sufficiently low intensity, I finish the simple yet delightful process of making a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Here. Careful, it’s still hot.”

Uthgerd takes my simplest and least useful anachronism yet and hesitantly bites into it. Her jaws work slowly as she chews with the caution of someone expecting their teeth to meet a cherry’s stone at any moment. I hear the crunch of the toasted bread twice, thrice, then her face alights with the blush of a maiden’s first love. “Dibella’s teat, that is delicious! You got to make this every morning, Ragnar.”

I laugh nervously. “It’s simple enough and I don’t mind the spell practice, but a bit of variance in your diet is always good to have.”

She suddenly grabs me by the collar and leans in, our noses close enough for two flies to shake hands. “Every. Morning.”

I raise my hands in surrender, not at all eager to deny the wish of the one who will have plenty of opportunity to beat me up at our renewed evening sword drills. “Alright alright. Better finish eating while it’s still warm.”

Much to my relief she lets go of me and steps back. “Fine. And thanks again for this.”

She actually never said thanks the first time, but I refrain from pointing it out. Shrugging the matter off I proceed to make another sandwich for myself as well. It is quite tasty, to be fair; the Eidar cheese has a hearty taste to it, somewhat reminiscent of a sharp Cheddar. A good way to start the day; we have a long road ahead of us after lightening our load at the Riverwood Trader.

To say Lucan Valerius is exuberant about the recovery of his treasured ‘family heirloom’ would be an understatement. We might as well have returned the urn with the ashes of his dear old grandmother. But then, even those are usually relegated to a shelf or mantelpiece to then receive a half-hearted dusting every week or two. The golden claw, though, he positions in a place of honour right on the counter worn smooth with constant use, the now useless artifact constantly within easy reach. “Stendarr be praised, I had given up all hope when the first group didn’t return. You more than earned your coin.” Reverent fingers brush over the gleaming metal one more time, then he begins to count out the promised sixty Septims. “I am forever in your debt. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Quite so. We got a lot of other valuables from the barrow so we’d like to sell what we can.”

Lucan’s eyebrows knit together. “Very well. But after such a large expense there is a limit to how much I can take.”

“Don’t you worry, we’ll probably buy some things too. Say, got any enchanted jewelry.”

“And a wedge of every kind of cheese you have,” Uthgerd cuts in. “You can do that with other cheeses than the one before, right?”

Goodness, she is worse than I was in the first week after buying a sandwich toaster. “Yes I can. You can even mix up two cheeses in the same… bread. Makes it even better.”

Uthgerd should never smile like that. It puts far more unease in me than her usual sour attitude.

I’m sure Bethesda will greatly appreciate the marked reduction of his burden. We keep the potions and scrolls of fireball for later use, as well as the good number of gems we found; they’re as good as money and lighter than their equivalent value in coin, even with each Septim here equal to about ten in the game.

My decision to buy the amulet of Akatosh falls so quickly my id must have barreled right over its two compatriots before any conscious thought could pass through my mind. Extra magicka regeneration is more than welcome; it means quicker recovery, which means additional spell practice every day, which in turn means accelerated growth of my magical abilities. In the classical party composition of fighter, cleric, rogue and mage I find myself in need of filling the last three roles while in the company of two fighters, or perhaps barbarians.

I think back to Uthgerd’s unleashed fury in our desperate struggle against Ingmorn Frost-Reaver. Yep, girl so is a barbarian.

I hold up another amulet displaying an octagon formed by a pair of overlapping hollow squares with a red gem in the middle. Closing my eyes, I project my awareness into the magicka coursing through my body, then fold my hands over the amulet and let the unformed essence flow through the completed circle so it washes over the aura held in the ruby’s enchantment. Identifying magical effects is easy in this world, even people entirely defunct in spellcraft can and often do learn it. “This one raises your vitality, lets you keep going with wounds that might otherwise halt your arm. Any takers?”

Uthgerd shakes her head. “First have to see what fixing up my armour will cost, this was a quite expensive set. But at least I got a suitable replacement for my sword.” More than suitable I would say. That ebony ax is a fearsome weapon, though cumbersome. I couldn’t hope to make efficient use of it.

Ralof takes the amulet out of my hands and inspects it carefully. “I think I might. I’m happy with the shield I got, but we can’t let you keep hoarding all the jewelry forever or you might run out of fingers.” The plain copper ring raising my agility was an item I gladly claimed with Uthgerd taking the ax and Ralof a shield enchanted to soften the blows it receives. His previous one now has the appearance of a pizza with its first slice removed by hungry fingers.

Pizza! There’s a worthwhile quest for another day.

Much as I appreciate the ring though — not least because it confirms magics of the earlier games are still available, Skyrim itself lacked character attributes — the real prize was the books we found. The spell tomes are a mixed bag; discovering a tome of Necromantic Healing in the draugr-infested tomb makes a lot of sense, but it’s near useless to me. Might not even be able to sell it given the disrepute of necromancy. Cure Poison was a better find, not a game-changer but if I ever end up in need of the spell I will be more than glad to have invested the time to learn it.

I’m not yet sure how to feel about the final spell tome in my possession. Bound Quiver is not familiar to me from playing any of Morrowind, Oblivion and Skyrim; it might come from the expansions perhaps or the earlier games. These bolts would be deadlier than anything human craftsmanship can produce, but putting yet another school of magic in my repertoire is a daunting task. I’m already training alteration, destruction and restoration, in that order of preference, and I had originally planned to go for illusion next to expand my stealth capabilities given by the Dark Brotherhood gear. While all schools feature worthwhile lower-grade spells, such a generalist approach is likely to be weaker than focusing on just two of them. And not just for the access to the higher-level spells; I’m already noticing how my spells slowly but steadily drain less of my magicka the more I train their school, which mirrors the effect of raising your skill level in the game. And perhaps the traits halving the magicka cost of novice/apprentice/etc. spells of a specific school are incrementally accumulated too instead of coming all at once with a click of the mouse.

It seems the development of script here followed a similar chronology as back home, only stretched over a far longer period of time. The millenia-old tomes are written in an uncial that is quite comfortable to read, more so since it lacks the scriptura continua I would expect to find in similarly looking Latin manuscripts. The Cure Poison tome, especially, is such a beautiful specimen I already feel bad about burning its contents away to nothingness as I read it. Whyever did the scribe go to the effort of making such intricate zoomorphic initials at the onset of each chapter when the text by its very nature is a disposable product?

The final two books though make me want to pound my head against a wall until the pain goes away. Much less formal than the spell tomes, they are written in cursive. _Roman_ cursive. The discourtesy of that script made me groan even back home, with notes and secondary literature to cross-reference and without whatever curveballs the deviations of this world throw at me on top. I focused on late medieval palaeography mostly because the ‘explosion of writtenness’ in that period — a term actually used by the pertinent scholars — means there are veritable mountains of historical sources that have never been properly examined by a modern historian, and that to me is far more exciting than walking a beaten path. But if I’m honest with myself I can’t deny it was also a factor that the Roman cursive just plain takes a lot of the fun out of the process.

I could put the matter off if these books didn’t promise to be so damn useful. Judging from the crude diagrams one of them seems to be about draugr ecology, or perhaps creation. Interesting, but not necessary. The other though seems to be on the topic of spell creation, which promises to be so hilariously abusable I couldn’t help but cackle maniacally. Silence placed on a crossbow bolt as an assassination weapon, preventing the clatter of their falling body if they die, or a scream if they don’t? Placing Invisibility on a full helmet only to allow free vision while still providing protection, and goading the enemy into making futile strikes? A weapon that disintegrates any other it clashes with, turning a successful parry into a disaster? The possibilities are near endless.

But to get any of that I first have to chew through this… cursive. Well, it could be worse, at least I am able to read the text at all. The language of this world remained remarkably static. I once took a look at Beowulf’s original text, the Old English of a thousand years ago was near unrecognizable.

Camilla meanwhile is standing to the side, a nervously twitching bundle that is either desperately trying to keep the strained dam of her bladder from giving in or waiting to finally receive the attention she craves.

“Ralof, Uthgerd, why don’t you go ahead and get ready, I’ll catch up soon.”

Ralof gives me a knowing smile. “Sure, still have some things to take care of with my sister. Should have removed the armour before I went to see her, gave me a real earful.” His gloved fingers run over the long gash left by Uthgerd’s final strike. “Let’s say an hour, give or take.”

The relaxed, blissful exhalation as the tenseness leaves Camilla’s body would still fit both interpretations, but of course, there is no humbling puddle forming at her feet. My companions depart and she grabs me by the hand, all but dragging me up to the bedroom giddy with excitement. Of all the possible reasons why a literal 10/10 girl might do that ‘so I can tell her all about how I cut my way through a zombie-infested dungeon’ ranked close to the bottom, below ‘to carve out my heart for a demon-summoning ritual she saw on Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ but above ‘to have an orgy with her equally 10/10 triplet sisters’.

Well, at least I can brag that my oral skills left this one thoroughly satisfied. Telling the tale isn’t all that different from narrating as my D&D group traipses through the lost depths of Sarbreen, and that’s one thing I have some experience with.

“You were right, I guess this would have been too much for me.”

Guess. Yeah right. We barely made it through with the Dragonborn of legend and a female Conan the Barbarian. “Bit of hunting as you said might indeed be a good start, just don’t take a shot at a bear unless Faendal gives the go-ahead. By the way, what happened between the two of you?”

She grimaces, the left side of her lips exposing the teeth below. “All was well, but then I found a letter signed with Sven’s name… When I confronted him about it he at first played dumb but then came clean. Apparently you know something about all that?”

My uncertain smile must look rather sheepish as I find myself unexpectedly put on the spot. “Yeah, sorry about that. Turns out he had the same underhanded plan, but I talked him out of it. His change of heart seemed genuine and I wanted to give him a chance to be the better man. Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

She waves the matter off with a laugh. “It’s alright, call it a learning experience. I have to figure out for myself which guys are good or bad, it’s more than enough my brother tries to do that in my stead.”

“Well, if you expect him to still teach you hunting he must have taken it not too hard.”

Her feet push against the floor, making the chair she is sitting on rock back and forth rhythmically. “Well, he did take it much better than Sven, he was rather cross with you. Never knew he is such a momma’s boy. Kept muttering about his sweet mother under his breath.”

Twin jets of water erupt from the sides of my mouth as the inopportune drink I was about to take is forcefully expelled. A coughing fit that would make General Grievous proud shudders through my body.

“Are you alright?” Camilla is at my side, clear concern in her voice. With two layers of armour the touch of her hand on my back is a mere ghost.

“Yeah, just… went down the wrong way.” I cough twice more and rap the palm of my hand against my sternum, finding myself able to breathe regularly again after that unexpected disruption. Holy shit, did I seriously almost get myself strangled in my sleep over the consequences of the game’s very first minuscule side quest? My decision to join the Dark Brotherhood wasn’t all about the excellent gear, I knew I’d likely need the protection of the tenets sooner or later with how the Dragonborn amasses enemies.

I just didn’t expect it to happen _quite_ so soon. Or Ralof to be the Dragonborn instead of me, for that matter.

“After all you’ve been through I don’t think it would be appropriate for a cup of water to kill you.” Camilla’s pert smile is far too close to my own face, and in my mind’s eye I can already see her brother ready torches and pitchforks to chase some distance between us. “No, I don’t think I can allow you to die from something so mundane. I think it should take at least another dragon.”

Oh sweet Camilla, that might come to pass far sooner than you expect if Mirmulnir’s attack is triggered by the same events as in the game.

o-o-o-o

“So, Uthgerd, do you remember that bet with finishing a barrel of Honningbrew in one sitting?”

The addressed woman gives me a leery look. “What about it?”

“I think the price of the barrel might shoot up rather soon.”

The blazing afternoon sun finds its glow challenged by a sea of fire at its feet. Thatched roofs and fields of wheat offer a richly set table to the ravenous fallout of draconic might. The last few days have been dry, but luckily not enough for the flame to spread through the knee-high wild grass where the products of human habitation have not yet displaced nature’s sovereignty. Flakes of feathery ash spiral softly through the skies, and a southbound wind carries the joyful dancers up to our hill witnessing the inferno below. One such sliver of once farmstead or field drifts against my cheek, carrying no more warmth after its long journey, and the loose flecks crumble on my skin. A fearsome roar of this conflagration’s perpetrator cuts through the air, and even with the considerable distance between us I swallow hard with trepidation.

“So, what now?” Ralof looks more uncertain than in his encounter with the World-Eater. Being just another man to join the gaggle of defenders desperately trying to keep the dragon away from Whiterun’s wood-wrought vulnerability would have come easier to him than fighting with the knowledge that he alone shoulders the responsibility of vanquishing the threat of resurgent dragonkind.

My answer is simple. “We fight.”

“No.” Uthgerd’s eyes are still fixed on the airbound horror, the determined tone of her voice brooking no dissent. “We’re going to kill that thing.”

We hustle down the hill towards men and women bearing the yellow dress of Whiterun. The defenders have taken position between an array of boulders to provide them cover against the dragon’s murderous breath currently scorching a swathe of death and ruin through the landscape. In the distance, some specks of fire still flicker in the rubbled ruin of a watchtower standing half as tall as it used to be far too short ago. This time, Mirmulnir wasn’t content with this modicum of destruction.

I harden my skin with an Oakflesh spell, for all the good that might do. “Reinhardson, you noticed, didn’t you?”

I turn to Ralof, unsure what he is alluding to. “What do you mean?”

“This one’s brown, not black. And smaller I think.”

Right. I shouldn’t have known beforehand that this is a different dragon than the one at Helgen. I feign a voice of daunted realization. “Looks like there’s at least two of them.”

We pass through a wide scar left by one of the dragon’s previous strafing runs. Dead, blackened earth crumbles under the impact of our step. The first pair of corpses flanks our path, charred flesh cracked and flaking off piebald bodies of black and brown bereft of skin. The shape of their helmets is distorted, the heat striking hot enough for the softened iron to fold in under its own weight like the clocks in that Dalí painting.

The fire resistance potion I got in preparation for this very moment might as well be a layer of sunscreen against a napalm strike.

The scent of burned human flesh is markedly different from the draugr suffering under my Molotovs. It lacks the tangy sweetness of decay, but is revolting on some deep, instinctual level and I quickly move on before nausea can claim me.

We slam hard against the cover of rocks after crossing the no man’s land and I inhale deeply as I scan the sky. The explosive woosh of the dragon’s passing pounds against my eardrums and sends a ripple through the fading green of the grass like a stone tossed into a peaceful pond. Each of his knee-length rectangular scales is a thick plate of overlapping bone, tan on his underside and a darker brown on the rest of the body, with a ridge of spikes long enough to skewer a pig running along the dragon’s back. Despite the bulk of his scales with a taper towards the extremities the dragon’s body flexes and bends smoothly with a serpentine wiggle left and right as he swims through the air with an ease belying the sheer, raw mass of the beast. The inhuman cadence of his voice shakes the very air in a tongue few living beings have heard spoken, and it will be fewer still by the time this day is done. **“HIN SAHLO DWIINSEGOL NIS AHRAAN DOVAH!”** [Your feeble iron cannot harm me!]

A number of arrows dot the hide of the dragon, but all the shots I see flying through the air miss as Mirmulnir gains distance with rapid speed. Then, once out of bowshot, he makes a turn to come back at us again. More guards are streaming in from the city and I also see some of the Companions joining the fight. That distinctive clawmark-pattern of blue warpaint is unmistakably the hallmark of Aela the Huntress. And there I was commending Skyrim’s sensible female armour and clothing design instead of stripperific fanservice. Is cleavage even still the right term when it reaches all the way down to the belt? And the leather on her lower body doesn’t even go to her knees, barely more than a miniskirt. At least she has some loose chainmail protecting the sides of her exposed legs, but only the sides.

But what she lacks in reason when and where to live out her exhibitionism — whatever rocks your boat wolf-girl, no kink-shaming from me — she more than makes up in skill. Her arrow strikes true from a distance I wouldn’t chance to take a shot at a fast-moving target of even this prodigious size, and the projectile penetrates close to where the right wing joins the scapula. As the dragon draws nearer more people manage to land hits, but most just clatter off harmlessly. Only perhaps a fifth or a quarter manage to stick, but things are happening too fast for anything more than random guesswork. Mirmulnir comes to a stop. His body hovers in the air, the steady rise and fall of mighty wings billowing my cloak even at this distance. No doubt he intends another breath attack. The defensive fire intensifies both in volume and accuracy, going from a mere drip to a steady patter. I’m about to pull the trigger of my crossbow when I see a group of arrows torn from the air by the force of the dragon’s wingbeat. Adjusting to this new complication I wait for the wings to reach their nadir, then fire. My bolt strikes true on the brighter scales of the wyrm’s belly, where it joins a growing number of other projectiles that managed to bite into the thick plates of overlapping bone. Shouts of pain and death from where the all-consuming breath struck leave no doubt that these hits were bought at a heavy price.

Jets of white lightning dance over the dragon’s hide and he turns away after completing his fiery assault. I give one more parting shot that grazes the beast’s tail at too steep an angle to do more than ricochet, and look over at the source of the spell. Irileth. She is shouting commands, trying to keep the soldiers organized, but with the roar of battle and too many voices screaming over each other the people in her immediate vicinity are but a tiny island of order in a vast ocean of chaos. I glance at Ralof. He meekly holds onto a javelin with an uncertain look in his eye. He never came close enough to attempt a throw. Uthgerd is checking the bodies on the ground. She may be trying to find a glimmer of life that has not yet faded, or looking for a spare bow, I can’t tell.

Mirmulnir is back again, but this time he doesn’t slow his fearsome approach. He swoops low and whips his two hind legs forward and slams into one of the protective boulders. The resounding collision dislodges it from the earth that resolutely held onto it for likely longer than Whiterun stands. I see at least two men getting crushed by several tons of rock that until a moment ago offered them sanctuary from the beast’s onslaught. His triumphant roar vibrates in my head with an intensity that makes me think it is trying to reach down into my very soul.

The mounting pressure is too much and I see a man and a woman in Whiterun garb break away, but their flight is short-lived. The meteoric impact of Mirmulir slamming into the ground hits us like an earthquake, the very world turned into a shivering tuning fork. I barely remain on my feet by bracing a hand against another, yet unmoved boulder, and my successful balancing act affords me an excellent view of the fleeing soldiers’ demise. The man dies on the moment of impact when a landing leg places one of its claws on each of his shoulders to then paste his upper body into a pulp of rent flesh and crushed bone on the ground. A mere moment later the dragon’s jaws whip forward and snatch around the woman’s midsection with the sickening crunch of broken ribs that offer no more resistance to the wyrm’s bite than a dried-out breadstick. The whole thing is over in seconds.

The faltering resolve of the defenders hangs heavy in the air and I suspect only witnessing the fate of their two compatriots prevents more of them from seeking salvation in flight. But the shocked silence finally gives Irileth a chance to cut through the turmoil. “Form on me! Spread out equally over the rocks and always keep the dragon in your sight! Do not stand in the straight line of its approach, it flies fast but turns slowly, if we look out we can dodge it!”

I see a few people stand up straighter. Their stance is still uneasy but the voice of their leader gives them new direction and strength. “Whiterun!” I don’t know who started the cry, but other voices are picking it up, at first in disarray but then unifying into a steady chant that is joined by one throat after the next. A simple, yet effective rallying cry. The mortals facing down a spark of the Divine have recovered, at least for now, and once more stand resolutely to defend their home.

Our respite is short-lived, and Mirmulnir returns for another attack. He again goes for a boulder, but this time we are prepared and none fall victim to the crush of stone. The dragon’s low pass made for an easy target to Irileth’s comparatively short range with her elemental spell and her sustained assault elicits a blood-curdling shriek that seems two parts annoyance to one part pain. The first verbal reaction our attacks have provoked.

An uneasy feeling sends a chill through my body, a block of ice in my chest radiating out its frigid touch.

He comes around again. Another gout of flame erupts from his jaws as he hovers over us, but it is a mere bluff to bait us into attacking. The hungry breath cuts off as soon as it starts and Mirmulnir swoops down right towards Irileth, her hand still raised for another burst of lightning that will never come. The dragon’s maw clamps shut on her outstretched arm and uproots her from the earth. His head shakes left and right with the vigour of a dog tearing into his chew toy. On the second pass the violent motion sends Irileth tumbling through the air, her left arm still held tight between the dragon’s teeth.

I’m already on the move before she hits the ground. Bleak Falls had some high-grade healing potions, so unless the impact splits her skull open I should out of everyone here have the best chance of keeping her alive. I stumble as an earth-shaking thud reveals the dragon landed ponderously somewhere in my back, but not close enough to strike at me so I keep going. Irileth was flung hard enough to leave a small dent in the packed earth, and if not for magical bullshit I would have no hope of doing anything more than prolonging her misery. Her wound is leaking copious amounts of blood, the arm torn out right at the root. The gray of her skin seems more ashen than it used to, making for a striking contrast with the red of her eyes.

She is still conscious and able to swallow much to my relief. The first sip sends her into a coughing fit, then she finishes the rest of the potion in one go. Her anguished grimace smooths out slightly, but there is no repairing a lost limb. “You should keep fighting, every man counts.”

I snort out my frustration. “I wish that was true. He went for you because you were the only one able to hurt him.”

She looks at me with clear confusion on her features worn by many years and battles. “But the arrows, they penetrate…”

“They stick in the thick bone plate, but they don’t get through to the flesh beneath!” I ball my fist still holding the empty potion vial. Black leather creaks between the glass and my skin. “It’s like thorns you find stuck in your thick woolen cloak after a day of travel. We’re not dealing any damage!”

Irileth stares in open-mouthed apprehension, but then she suddenly starts laughing. Did the pain and blood loss turn her delirious? “You might want to check on that again.” She lifts up her one remaining hand with ponderous effort to point behind me.

I turn around, my ears ringing with a roar of… pain?

Mirmulnir is on the ground. The dragon thrashes in a violent fury that tears the earth and shakes the land. Taut ropes connect to harpoons embedded in the hide I thought unconquerable, guards and Companions holding onto the trailing cord with the strength of desperation and unwavering purpose. One harpoon comes loose as the dragon’s body twists, another has its wielder killed when the dragon steps on the taut line and causes her to stumble forward right into the wyrm’s waiting fangs. But for every one that fails another follows, the combined strength of dozens of hands striving to prove equal to the inhuman might of a singular foe. A loose ring of spearwielders surrounds the dragon, stepping back out of reach when in the wyrm’s focus, stepping in to strike when not. A stream of churning flame consumes one or two of them, but the reality-bending power of the Voice also proves to be its weakness. The defenders have learned that a vocal intonation heralds the dragon’s most fearsome attack.

I eagerly join the assault. Fierce ardor unlike anything I have felt before swells in my chest, the enthusiasm of seeing victory in our grasp after all seemed lost. Is this what soldiers felt on countless battlefields throughout the ages, allies at their sides, the line of enemies in front and blood at their feet? I keep walking forward as I load and fire, load and fire, bolt after bolt striking at the massive creature. If only one in ten penetrating shots burrows deep enough to hit the flesh below I just have to fire nine more times and strip away the dragon’s life sliver by tiny sliver. I can almost taste his mortality on my tongue. The unrestrained tail lashes about, its tip a kite-shaped bone blade that may be taller than me. It whips at one of the guardsmen resolutely holding onto his rope even in the face of oncoming death, but he is saved by Ralof interceding in the tail’s path. The clash of bone on enchanted steel and the crack of a sundered shield arm are violent enough to be heard even over the din of furious battle. Ralof is thrown back several meters, but his charge is safe and his wound not enough to keep the tenacious Nord warrior down.

I’m finally close enough to use Molotovs instead of my crossbow. I only have three left, the petroleum-mixes I didn’t bring into Bleak Falls Barrow because the black smoke they produce would have been a hindrance in the close confines of the crypt. It will never eat through inch-thick bone, but if it is enough to compromise the membrane of the wings I can ensure our foe will remain earthbound.

My first toss fails to break on impact and is lost in the trampled grass at our feet, but the second one spreads the shiny slickness of its contents on the dragon’s left wing and I immediately ignite it. After a moment of consideration I repeat the process on the wyrm’s main body with my final Molotov. There is little hope of reaching the opposite side of the melee anytime soon.

Uthgerd steps in and chops Frost-Reaver’s ebony ax into the dragon’s hindleg with a herculean cry that distorts her features into a taut rictus of effort, as if every single muscle in her body is pushed to the breaking point to give her blow more power. The imposing blade cuts deeper than any other attack before it and its stark blackness comes away red for several inches after the edge. The dragon roars again, and this time it is unmistakably pure, undistilled pain without the air of annoyance at the meager ants daring to challenge a power beyond their comprehension.

**“HI FENT BO ZEIM YOL WAH QAHNAAR DOVAH!”** [You have to walk through fire if you want to strike me down!]

Mirmulnir exhales a half-circle of fire again, but this time the second word is different. It sounds like a Klo or Klu instead of Toor. When his breath fades the conflagration at our feet does not, lingering on the bare earth with no less persistence than my own Molotov cocktails. The dragon rotates in place and with the area denial of the burning ground some of the people holding onto the ropes are unable to follow up. We are fast losing whatever control we had of the monstrous creature’s movement. Aela is swept off her feet by one of the ropes when Mirmulnir literally drags the battlefield several men’s length away with the brute strength of his bulk. His tail lashes at the downed Companion, but Uthgerd throws herself over her prone body and absorbs the deadly blow with her armour. The crack of dragonbone against the plate covering her back is hideous, a veritable wrecking ball guided by sadistic intellect.

Spears keep stabbing at the dragon and I see Ralof join one of the Companions. Their combined strength forces the metal head all the way into the beast’s side. But far too many of our attacks are ineffective and serve as little more than a door knocker. One spear is pushed hard enough for the shaft to bend and splinter and yet the dragon’s hide remains unperturbed. But his wounds amass with every passing moment and no more mortals turn to flight, all our hearts fierce with the resolve to see our foe’s body give out before our numbers do.

One of the Companions, Vilkas I believe, failed to retreat from the dragon’s advance in time and gets pushed to the ground with one of Mirmulnir’s claws coming to rest on his chest. For an instant I believe to see his muscles swell and fingers elongate, but then the moment passes and he closes his eyes in silent resignation. A shift of the dragon’s weight, and he is crushed, no armour able to withstand the pressure of a full-grown wyrm’s bulk. He chose death over revealing the Companions’ secret to free himself.

Farkas is staring at the dragon in unabashed hatred. He stands rigid like a statue save for his right hand that seemingly wants to compress the hilt of his sword into a needle. He is far too easy a target for the next time Mirmulnir speaks words of fire. Only the timely intervention of a guardsman saves him from sharing his brother’s fate, pulling the two of them down into the hole left by one of the dislodged boulders the whisper of a second before the greedy fire can wash over them.

A rod of pure darkness lies in the groove of my crossbow. My final gift of the Warmaiden’s craftsmanship, a bolt of solid ebony capped with raven feather fletching. I only have two precious shots and now for once the dragon’s head remains still as flame erupts from his muzzle. Calm your raging heart. Exhale slowly. Fire. The charge of unearthly metal cuts deep into the dragon’s neck. The flame of his breath sputters and dies, again leaving a field of fire in its wake. But then the curtain of flame is suddenly parted by a figure bursting forth from the raging inferno. Farkas, his tortured body a muddle of reddened skin and scorched flesh, drives his blade forward with all the strength and speed his heedless charge can muster. The sword pierces the dragon’s neck all the way through and exits on the other side drenched in dripping gore. Where my bolt was just a pinprick, this is four feet of Skyforge steel as wide as my hand. A fatal blow.

Farkas’s eyes shine with the anger of a thousand memories of the brother he will never embrace again, grim satisfaction writ on his flame-scarred face. “I’ll carve my brother’s epitaph into your skull, you vile beast.”

Mirmulnir struggles in his death throes, and his thrashing rises into a blind panic when the outermost layers of his hide start to flake off. The fragments seem to get more insubstantial with every second as they lift off into the air propelled by an invisible wind. Spots of orange-white appear on his body and spread outward, akin to a piece of paper tossed over an open flame. Within seconds the dragon’s entire body is a dazzling glow shining brighter than the sun, before it suddenly collapses into the pure essence of fire that leaves only the mighty one’s bare bones behind. The energy of the dragon’s soul gathers into a screaming waterfall that unerringly rushes at the Dragonborn standing numb with shock as his fragment of Akatosh consumes its older sibling.

It is done.

For the first time in untold centuries, a dragon lies dead at the feet of Man.


	8. The Die is Cast

I can’t help but be struck by the profound divide the number of combatants creates in the aftermath of a fight. When the three of us overcame the Guardian of Bleak Falls Barrow we just collapsed to the ground, silent but for our labored breathing. Here though, the initial shock in the face of the dragon’s dissolution is soon followed by exultations that put the modest celebrations of a birthday or wedding to shame. The mood is more akin to the atmosphere following the game-winning goal in the World Cup Final against Argentina, and the resemblance only gets more striking when the citizens of Whiterun pour forth from the gates, enveloping us like a stream wrapping around a rock. They clap shoulders, shout names where they know them, offer generic praise where they don’t. Irileth is taken aback by the clamorous recognition she receives for her efforts, any notion of her Dunmer heritage causing unease in the Nord natives burning away to nothingness as surely as if it had been caught in the dragon’s red ire. Even now, half-carried by a guardsman with her remaining arm over his shoulder to support the forworn housecarl, she has the presence of mind to ensure enough people are tending to the flames still licking at the sky in our backs, but the buildings here sit far enough apart for no further fire to spread from these testaments of Mirmulnir’s wrath.

To think I almost forgot to collect Bethesda after the fight. An incidental thief happening across the tree-bound mule would have caught the easiest haul of his life. For now I leave our trusted load-bearer in the stables, still standing secure and unlit in the high walls’ shadow. After both Ingmorn and the dragon, all the healing potions we collected in Bleak Falls lasted as long as a bottle of coke at a children’s birthday party. I have to admit in RPGs I was a hoarder, collecting endless quantities of potions, scrolls, wands, oils, food and drugs only to leave them rotting away in a non-respawnable container. Here, a potion can mean a life and these strangers more than earned my charity.

I try to keep up at least a facade of joy halfway matching the smothering jubilations. But much as I want to be swept away by the unintelligible euphoria of a thousand voices filling the air at once, the knowledge that this is but the first small step of a much grander quest keeps my mood contained to a soft simmer not matching the spitting and hissing boil all around me. Two more figures are visibly subdued, Farkas, surrounded by a ring of other fighters at a respectful distance to give him space for his mourning, and Uthgerd, who is flanked by Aela and another Companion I don’t recognize. Her head hangs low as if we just came from crushing defeat instead of victory, and all I can make out of her silent muttering is a dejected ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’.

And Ralof? He smiles the hesitant smile of an actor accosted by a fan who mistakes him for another, midway between flattered and embarrassed. Guards and Companions have lifted him up to their shoulders, carrying the Dragonborn revealed with the air of an army triumphantly presenting their enemy’s battle standard on their way home.

At last I permit myself a genuine smile. Things are proceeding ahead of schedule.

Our procession moves towards Jorrvaskr, guided by some invisible hand with clear purpose. It is my first time coming this close to Whiterun’s first residence built by the original companions of Ysgramor, the hall’s namesake ship turned upside down to provide roof and shelter. Much as the Nords have a Viking aesthetic, this one doesn’t match the old longships. It may have the symmetrical design and the round shields lining the railing sure add to it, but it is well larger than the vessels of the Norse seafarers and is missing the most crucial part of their innovative design: the low, flat hull allowing for a shallow draft to all but skip over the water.

Alas, such a more faithful imitation wouldn’t have lent itself to crown such a grand hall. The plank ceiling soars to great heights, knot-patterned wooden pillars and crossbeams building a framework to hang chandeliers, tapestries and trophies. The center of the singular room is dominated by a long line of tables bracketing a fire smoldering in an oblong pit breaking up granite flagstone and lush carpets of red and yellow. With all of Whiterun bent on celebration this is where the people congregrated, and despite the permissive spaciousness of Jorrvaskr it isn’t remotely enough. It seems everyone wants to be here in what promises to be a big party with free-flowing mead. The only one who can’t get out fast enough is Farengar who scurries away as soon as his eager hands wrap around the Dragonstone. I’m left with the distinct impression he is acutely uncomfortable in the tight press of bodies, forcing him to push his way through when people are unable and quite possibly unwilling to yield the way to the court wizard.

All the remaining warriors of the battle, by a rough estimate about two guardsmen to every Companion, are seated at the tables and I barely manage to rip Ralof away so he and Uthgerd sit next to me. He seems to appreciate being freed at least for now from the clinging attention. Ralof is a personable and likable fellow, but with so many ardent eyes on him he seems to devolve into a young schoolboy giving a presentation to the rest of the class.

I might be a bad friend, considering what I have planned for him.

Gray-Manes and Battle-Borns are present in the crowd, doing their best to remain separate. The whispering huddle of the latter is markedly less joyful than the people around them. They must already have learned that the Dragonborn is a Stormcloak and much as they should appreciate not right now sitting in a giant funeral pyre, I can’t blame them for the news filling them with unease. I think that grim warrior with his beard tied into a thin tail below his chin is the Jarl’s brother. His jaw is set, the muscles of his neck betraying the tension running through his body. He might be a greater obstacle to my plans than both Ingmorn and Mirmulnir were, and I can use neither bolt nor sword to end him.

Well, I could. But I can’t give in to the lure of the slippery slope whenever someone is… inconvenient.

Drink and laughter are plenty, but then silence slowly ripples outward when Jarl Balgruuf and Kodlak Whitemane step forward, the empty room behind the firepit giving them a stage where everyone can see them. The Jarl raises his hand and every hushed whisper is quelled like a candle’s flame grasped between thumb and pointer. “Thank you all for coming here, and thank you to my old friend, Kodlak Whitemane —” he puts a hand on the steel-clad shoulder of the old warrior, his face ploughed by many lines and fewer scars “— for offering a hall befitting the heroes who saved the home we all hold dear.”

The void after his words is filled by clapping, not applause but a steady rhythm of hundredfold hands and feet beating in unison against a surface. The people sitting at the table remain still; those who are honoured do not join in the salute.

“All of you who have fought today, I am in your debt, and Whiterun is in your debt. For the first time in untold generations, mortal men and women have to face this foe of legend, the might of dragons like the fury of a thunderstorm come manifest. And yet your strength, and your hearts, were worthy of this task. Thank you, from all of us.” Again the Nord version of applause, this time joined by loud exclamations. “Your deeds are worthy of our most honoured ancestors, and those who didn’t live to see the fruit of their efforts shall find seats of honour in Shor’s hall, where at this very moment the greatest warriors of old stand up and raise their cups in recognition of their bravery!” This time the people at the table join the furious applause that seems intent on breaking every surface of this hall into splinters, and I too pound my knuckles against the hard wood.

It may not be much of a challenge to get a rise out of the present exuberant company, but there is no denying Balgruuf is an apt speaker. One and all they hang on every word of the sandpaper roughness of his voice. When he lets the silence linger after the clapping cedes the room is filled with a slowly building tension. The moment stretches, then he speaks again just before it gets stacked so high someone else would knock the tower down. “But among all of you, there are a few whose efforts stand out and I would be amiss if I didn’t offer them recognition and reward. All of you did their part, but the one to strike the killing blow on an overpowering foe unlike any other this age has seen was none other than Farkas, one of the very Companions who call this hall their home.”

The wooden feet of Farkas’s chair scrape loudly over the floor as he pushes it back to stand up. His balled fist hits the armour of his chest and he inclines his head. “My Jarl, there is but one reward I ask. Carve the names of all who gave their lives today into the beast’s skull, and display it at the gate of Whiterun so that their name and deed may be remembered for as long as this city stands.”

Balgruuf seems taken aback with the request, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through his orator’s poise, but he quickly recovers. “Granted. I will see to it that it is done, and I swear to you I shall sooner breathe my last than see it torn down.”

“I thank you, Jarl Balgruuf.” Farkas sits down again, a rueful smile cresting his lips. He can’t bring his brother back, but he could ensure that his memory will last long after their bodies have turned to soil and dust.

“But the dragon wasn’t the only legend we witnessed in the flesh today.” Here it comes. Ever since the Word Wall I have been curious how this will play out now. “Faced with a grave threat, fate has also blessed us with a champion to surmount the dazzling heights we must climb. A Dragonborn is among us, and it is one I have come to respect even before his power was revealed. Ralof of Riverwood, please rise.”

Ralof does as bidden, inhaling deeply over the sound of his chair moving, his face carefully controlled as all eyes rest on him. “Ralof, you brought us warning of the attack at Helgen, braved Bleak Falls Barrow to retrieve the Dragonstone, an artifact that promises to aid us greatly in the battles that are yet to come, and today when you revealed your power in defence of our treasured home stripped the flesh from the dragon’s very bones. In recognition of your deeds this day and before, I present to you the Ax of Whiterun.” His steward steps forward, a one-handed ax resting flat on his outstretched hands. The weapon is all steel both blade and octagonal handle, firelight reflecting off its polished surface in a silver gleam. Its handle terminates in a curved raven’s head below the leather wrapping and the shimmer of enchantment is clear on the sharp edge of a head adorned with engravings displaying raised patterns before a darker backdrop. Curious, these lines are far more angular than the usual knot patterns; did the Nord style of art shift over time? “This weapon was wielded by one of the first Jarls of Whiterun, back when the raven of the Skyforge still prevailed over the horse that was to become this city’s symbol.”

The firepit becomes inconvenient now; Proventus has to round the tables to deliver Ralof’s reward. He takes it gingerly, one hand wrapped around the handle, the other supporting the flat of the head. To his credit, his voice is strong and clear when he speaks. “I am honoured by your gift and your words, Jarl Balgruuf. Whiterun is my home and my hearth, and I’ll gladly defend it wielding this weapon so rich with its history.”

“Hear hear!” The applause is a veritable roar that seeks to prove equal to the dragon’s cry that started the fateful events of this day.

“It is a shame really my daughter is still a child, otherwise I would have perhaps offered you her hand in marriage. But, if in six years’ time you still haven’t found your woman…” The playful smirk leaves me little doubt the Jarl is jesting, but nevertheless Ralof is rooted in place with embarrassment gripping his body tight. When I read about people turning red I always regard it as an exaggeration, but if his bare cheeks get any more flushed I might just send a bug report to the Operator. Poor Ralof right now most certainly regrets shaving.

“You just want that sweet royal bloodline for your grandchildren!” I don’t know who spoke, but the words provoke a bout of laughter from everyone, including the Jarl and me. A genuine laugh, not the half pretend half honest smiles I masked myself with ever since the end of the battle.

Jarl Balgruuf lets the merriment play out for a bit, then raises his hands and silence reigns again. “A fair point, dear friends. Who doesn’t want the best for their descendants, be it a good and honest family or safety from threats they are too young still to face themselves? But I digress.” He waits a moment for Ralof to return to his seat, then continues. “Lastly, Ragnar, son of Reinhard, please rise.”

I do as bidden, my salute mirroring the one Farkas gave. With all eyes on me I am uncomfortably aware of the damage left on my cuirass by that one draugr’s blow, the long gash in chain mail and gambeson crudely stitched back together with pieces of string so as to not leave a giant Achilles heel right on my chest for the remainder of Bleak Falls Barrow. I should have thought of switching into my tabard after the threat was over. Or checking my hair. But it is too late now, keep your hand still. Breathe. Stay calm, eyes straight. “You were the first to bring us the tidings from Helgen. When I was to dismiss the Dragonborn, you spoke in his favour. You organized and led the group that retrieved the Dragonstone. And today, you have saved the life of my dear friend and housecarl Irileth. In reward for your services, by my right as Jarl I hereby name you Thane of Whiterun. Let it be known to all here that from this day Ragnar Reinhardson holds this title inside my Hold, and that his word carries the authority that comes with it.”

“I am honoured by the trust you place in me, Jarl Balgruuf, and I pledge to always uphold the interests of Whiterun and its people in the days that are yet to come.” I too receive my applause and when the Jarl offers no further words to me I take my seat again. There is a short lull in the ceremony as Kodlak comes to whisper to the Jarl and a few of the Companions leave the table, giving me some quiet moments to contemplate.

So, he didn’t make the Dragonborn Thane after all. It makes sense; a Thane holds a position of authority in a Hold, and their words often find the ear of their Jarl as close advisors. Giving such a position to a Stormcloak would be a dire provocation to the Empire. The ax though, while still a great honour, is merely symbolic and even the staunchest loyalist would find it hard to deny a reward was warranted.

In retrospect, it was a quite clever ploy in the timeline of the game to give Thanehood to the Dragonborn without the complication of the colour of his cloak. It establishes Whiterun as his home, the first place to give him this title and a permanent residence unless the player goes well out of his way and actively avoids progressing the main questline. The Dragonborn is both a rising power and the best protection against dragonkind, so binding him to yourself is an investment promising large dividends. How many players siding with the Stormcloaks felt a pang of guilt and regret when they came to breach the walls of Whiterun? I certainly did, and I surmise most others did as well.

Well played, dear Balgruuf, well played. When you were unable to reward the Dragonborn thusly you instead chose the guy who seems best buds with him. Ralof’s cushy job as ambassador at your court is all but over now with the new responsibility put on his shoulders, and yet you found a way to maintain a hold on him.

It is good I intend for you to be an ally, otherwise I might be forced to take a step down the slippery slope.

Murmurs have started to spread through the hall and most have continued to partake in their well-deserved drink. I allow myself a sip of sweet mead, licking my lips when I put the cup back down. I have to stay sharp a while longer.

Balgruuf raises a hand again and the hall falls silent. “Our gracious host wanted to speak some words as well. Kodlak, if you please.” The Jarl wets his lips, now holding a cup himself with his speech done.

“Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf.” Contrary to his name the aging Harbinger’s hair and beard still has some gray to it broken up by streaks of white, salt ground over the belly of a mackerel. Despite his years, his posture is upright, his chest wider than his stomach, and his motions show a fluidity attained in many years of martial training. “Much as you are a guest here, we in turn are guests of Whiterun. You always were a friend to us, as were the people of Whiterun, and perhaps my proudest moment as Harbinger of the Companions was when the news of the dragon broke and they all grabbed their weapons to go defend their home without me ever needing to give the order.” He pauses briefly, but when he tries to continue he is interrupted by the clapping of the listeners. He speaks quite well, but evidently he lacks Balgruuf’s awareness of applause cues.

“Many gave their lives in this noble task, but where brothers and sisters were lost, new ones may also be found. The Companions will always honour the debt owed to those who saved their lives by risking their own, for this is the highest duty and pledge of the shield brothers and sisters living in this ancient hall of Ysgramor’s companions. On this day, we have witnessed proud warriors who fought with fury, struck with fearsome might and never wavered in their commitment to protect the people around them.”

I turn my head to the right. Uthgerd seems close to tears and her lips are quivering. She must have realized what is happening.

“Who speaks for Ralof, the Dragonborn?”

Skjor steps forward, bald and grim in his one-eyed gaze. “I speak for him, for he fought with the courage of a lion and the fierceness of a wolf.”

“Who speaks for Ragnar Reinhardson?”

Farkas steps into the half-circle. “I speak for him, for his efforts allowed me to land the killing blow.”

“Who speaks for Uthgerd the Unbroken?”

Aela joins the group, all remaining members of the Circle assembled. “I speak for her, for when my need was greatest she shielded my body with her own.”

“Would you raise your shield in their defence?”

Three voices speak as one. “I would stand at their back, that the world might never overtake us.”

“And would you raise your sword in their honour?”

“It stands ready to meet the blood of their foes.”

“And would you raise a mug in their name?”

“I would lead the song in triumph as our mead hall reveled in their stories.”

“Then the judgment of this Circle is complete. Their hearts beat with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, so the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call.”

“It shall be so.” This time, all the Companions in the hall join the chorus.

Kodlak turns back towards the tables, his arms wide as if inviting an embrace. “Ralof, Ragnar, Uthgerd, I name you my shield brothers and sister. From this day, you shall always find an ally in a Companion when you require aid, a bed in Jorrvaskr when you require shelter, a seat at our table when you require nourishment. And, if you are to join us, not just friends, but brothers and sisters in each of us.”

I exchange looks with my two as-of-yet lower-case c companions, and the answer couldn’t be clearer. “Aye.”

“Aye,” Ralof says.

“Aye,” Uthgerd finishes, a happy and peaceful smile on her face.

Jarl Balgruuf raises his cup high. “Hail Companion.”

A hundred voices thrice over answer the call. “Hail Companion!”

o-o-o-o

The cry was like a starting shot for the revel following the more formal parts of the congregation. After we’re through, Honningbrew might be wiped off the map for good. Many people come to offer us congratulations, and a few of them I even know; the tailor who informs me my custom cloak is ready to be collected, and at a discount — sure, why not, I won’t complain — one of the blacksmiths who made my yet untested caltrops, and Danica Pure-Spring, who I haven’t met yet but when she introduces herself I remember her role in the game. I completely forgot to check whether the Gildergreen is still bare and barren. Adrienne along with her husband Ulfberth are the ones I spend most time with given our familiarity. They are quite pleased to learn that their ebony bolt played such a part in the fight. For a moment I suspected they may be humblebragging when congratulating me, but they really didn’t know how important it was to strike with something superior to steel.

I enjoy their company for a while, but then I excuse myself when I see my window of opportunity. I approach Jarl Balgruuf and Kodlak Whitemane who are currently standing alone. “Jarl Balgruuf, may I have a moment of your time in private?”

The Jarl shoots the Harbinger a look. “May we perhaps borrow your chambers for some minutes?”

“Sure, go right ahead. You know the way and the door is open.”

The soft stagger of onsetting inebriation slides off Balgruuf like a veil the moment I close the door of the spartan chamber behind us. I shouldn’t be surprised; even with his Hold saved — for now — he is not the kind of man to leave his mind impaired on the day that may well become the turning point of Skyrim’s destiny. “What is this about, Ragnar?”

“About doing my duty as a Thane: offer counsel to the Jarl to whose service I am pledged.”

The cobalt blue of his gaze above the thin line of his lips is inscrutable as he regards me with the seriousness of a dueller picking the weapon that will either save or forfeit his life. “Go on.”

“The Dragonborn is a declared Stormcloak and word will spread quickly. Right now the people above are too busy with their well-deserved celebrations, but someone like you cannot afford to hold off on considering the political implications.” I pause briefly, but he doesn’t interject so I continue. “I don’t think the Empire is stupid enough to assassinate our only hope for salvation, but they may well try to win a decisive victory before the Dragonborn can start his dramatic rise in strength and rally people to the banner of his liege. The balance of power just shifted a mere hour ago. You were dancing on the edge of a knife to keep the war from spilling into Whiterun, and the music may cease as soon as the first hounded rider reaches Solitude.”

The Jarl turns away, hands on the back of a worn chair that gives no indication of its service to someone as prestigious as the Harbinger of the Companions. “Your friend told me you are the more politically savvy one. I guess he was right.” His lips quirk up in a mirthless smile. “What is your stake in this, son of Reinhard?”

“Quite simple. Humanity when I first came to you. Now? The world.” I walk over to Kodlak’s table, the phantom touch of my hand hovering above a familiar pink stone hanging unsupported in the air above its golden etui. One of the twenty-four stones of Barenziah. A vanity project if I ever saw one, but pretty all the same. “It is true that the suppression of Talos worship was a bitter stab in the back after the people of Skyrim gave their blood for the Empire, and Thalmor agents being allowed to roam the land as judge, jury and executioner is an affront to all that is just. There was no masking that you feel the same way when we first met, and I saw that Talos priest preaching at the Gildergreen, much as your guards pretend not to. But what most Stormcloaks fail to account for is the time beyond this war. Another conflict with the Aldmeri Dominion is sure to come, and an Empire fractured and bled dry by internal conflict is far less likely to prevail than one standing united. If this right now is what we get after fighting the Thalmor to a draw, the results of a decisive defeat will be a horror beyond reckoning.”

Balgruuf smirks in satisfaction. “My brother said you are just another Stormcloak who refuses to state his allegiance. I’m glad I was right about you.” Ralof had told me about him; a staunch loyalist who would like nothing more than for Whiterun to declare for the Empire, no matter the cost to his own Hold that would become the central battlefield once it raises shield and sword. “Yes, many sleepless nights I have pondered the dilemma you describe. Many think I refuse Ulfric’s call because we have a history, but it is far more than that. Back then we were just boys, and he was meant to become one of the Graybeards living in honoured isolation up at High Hrothgar. I could look past the quibbles of childhood, but what worries me is not the boy he was but the man he has become. His pride may lead us all to ruin.”

“What then if there is a third option besides Ulfric and the Empire.”

The Jarl’s brow scrunches up in confusion. “Explain.”

“The thing with the royal bloodline may have been a jest, but there is some truth to it.” This is it. I went over the words a thousand times ever since the dark light of Ingmorn passed on into the eternal night. Not fighting Mirmulnir, not the revelations at High Hrothgar, this moment right here may decide the fate of Skyrim. “People fondly look back to the glory days when Dragonborn Emperors sat the Ruby Throne. The Nord legends proclaim Ralof to be the champion who may save us all, like Martin Septim before him. Already people are lifting him up to their shoulders mere moments after he was revealed, and he didn’t even strike the killing blow. Whiterun won’t be the last city threatened by a dragon, and he will become the saviour people look to for salvation. If the Moot proclaims him as the new High King it could mend the scars left by the civil war. It has something poetic to it; Tiber Septim unified the Empire, and the Last Dragonborn prevents its dissolution.” Of course, an equally fitting book end would be the exact opposite, the Last Dragonborn splitting the Empire apart again. But poetry is often about what the reader wants to see in it. “Perhaps Skyrim would become something like a nominally autonomous tributary kingdom, not beholden to the White Gold Concordat but still in effect part of the Empire. Paying taxes, or tribute for appearance’s sake, supplying soldiers, keeping the borders open for trade and travel. The Stormcloaks get their freedom and the Empire is spared the humiliation of fracture and defeat.”

“Ralof is utterly loyal to Ulfric Stormcloak.” But the intrigue in Balgruuf’s eyes belies the doubt on his tongue.

“Perhaps,” I allow, letting the suspense hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “But ask yourself this: does Ralof want freedom of life and worship for the people of Skyrim because Jarl Ulfric commands it, or did he rather turn to Ulfric because he was the rallying banner to all those who hold this ideal high?”

Balgruuf doesn’t speak for a long while, but I can see the answer written on his face as his mind works with the expeditious fury of a chess grandmaster with three minutes left on the clock. “Suppose I was amenable to such a plot, what would be the next steps?”

Much as I should, I can’t hold back a smile. Welcome to the Dovahking Conspiracy, current membership: two. “Stall. More than anything Ralof needs time to grow in power and legend. Use your position to negotiate a truce while the dragon crisis lasts if you can. Find the best bards money can buy to ensure the songs that will spread of this day will subtly push our agenda, harkening back to the Dragonborn rulers of old, calling Ralof a champion of Skyrim, not a Stormcloak. If we can rope Kodlak in on our plan entice the other Jarls with the prospect of the Dragonborn and the Companions coming to clear out any dragons harrying them, long as they grant free passage to Ralof, no matter which colours he wears.” The Companions are sworn to neutrality in all manners political, but denying a contract that seeks to exclude one of their members, the only one able to permanently vanquish a dragon, is well within the boundaries of their commitment. “In the end, you are the man who can make this happen. You have the prestige, the resources, a rapport with the other Jarls. I’m just a guy who happened to go to the block alongside the one who destiny chose to bring us through this storm, and I’ll gladly be his helmsman if he allows it.”

The Jarl of Whiterun gives me an amused look. “You like playing with high stakes, don’t you.”

“No Jarl Balgruuf, I like to win. And with the stakes at hand, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

When you play the Game of Thrones, you win or you die.

o-o-o-o

The rest of the day is one big party. With the important matters behind me I am free to let go and let go I do. I introduce Skyrim to the drinking game of bouncing a coin off the table into the cup of another player, who is then compelled to drink. The game soon finds a group of about ten eager players after the tables have been split up to allow chairs on each side instead of having it blocked by the fireplace. Aela, in spite of being the Companions’ premiere markswoman, turns out remarkably bad at the game. At first Ralof tries to hook me up with her, still under the illusion I have some kind of brunette fetish. But then she makes some ill-advised pun on the name ‘Riverwood’, causing him and a guardsman with family there to gang up on her. Coin after coin clinks into her cup, and the merciless slaughter continues until at last she stumbles away and loses her lunch.

Her misfortune is answered with roaring laughter. As it turns out, it is considered a great honour for a new recruit to hold their liquor longer than a member of the Circle at the night of their induction. Apparently this feat hasn’t been accomplished in well over two hundred years, and warriors who could beat me up with one hand tied behind their back come to congratulate me on my prowess.

Cultural customs can be weird, but then I will gladly take this over any form of ritualistic mutilation. There are some truly outlandish things people do just because it is tradition.

To be honest, I haven’t had this much fun ever since coming here, and a good while before it. Corona-chan, thou art a heartless bitch. Tales and drink, food and games. I can’t help but go on a spree tasting all the different native foods instead of sticking to familiar staples like chicken. The mammoth cheese Uthgerd is eating proves a bit too rich for my taste, but the steak made from the snout of the same animal is all the better. The Bannered Mare is sort-of catering to handle the vastly unusual number of guests at Jorrvaskr, so I again have that delicious mushroom sauce at hand that goes splendidly with the meat.

The tale of Bleak Falls Barrow draws an attentive audience, but as evening turns to night I decide to go for another tack and reenact the Biggus Dickus scene from Monty Python’s Life of Brian with General Tullius in the role of Pontius Pilate while overseeing our supposed execution. Belly-bursting laughter fills the hall and Farkas even does the thing with sucking in his cheeks when I round on him and spontaneously put him into the role of one of the legionnaires, commanding him to remain silent lest he find himself in the arena fighting wild animals. Life is good, at least for now.

You know a party was a blast if the next day everyone rises so late they can skip breakfast and go straight to lunch. I ponderously take the stairs up from the living quarters in the cellar where I have been given a two-bed room to share with Ralof, though I lost track of him late into the festivities. Perhaps half of the Companions are already up and the collective hangover seen in their slumped postures and drooping eyes would probably still be enough to make a grown elephant fall over dead. One guardswoman is still snoring gently with her chest and arms sprawled out on a table. It seems no one had the heart to wake her up and send her home.

The gate is thrown open and hurried footsteps echo through the wide hall. Another guardsman, this one evidently not part of last night’s celebrations, heaves with the exertion of his steadfast commitment to not delay his arrival at the home of the Companions by a single second. “A messenger just arrived from Solitude. A dragon has been sighted west of the city. A white one.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air, broken up only by the nescient snoring blissfully unaware of what just transpired. The joyful mood of yesterday’s festivities is but another casualty joining the graves of the fallen.

So Alduin has made his move at last. The battle for the fate of the world begins in earnest now.

The clock ticks to four minutes to midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of the first major arc, so I suppose I should add a little author's note. Ragnar's grand scheme is revealed at last, the protagonists receive some pay-off for what they accomplished so far and the great conflict enters a new phase with Alduin starting the resurrection of his fallen brethren. And I'm quite happy with Uthgerd's little redemption arc, she seems rather underutilized in the fandom so I tried to do something interesting and new with her.
> 
> If you have enjoyed the story so far I would be glad for any reviews you leave to tell me which parts you liked the most, both in plot and prose. And perhaps which parts didn't work for you, either helps me to figure out what to focus on and where to take the story from here.


	9. Toss a Coin to your Housecarl

Crunch.

No need to let the somber mood stop my enjoyment of yesterday’s leftovers. The crostata are as delicious now as they were late into the night with the wild hunger born of drinking and partying. Sugar-topped juniper and snowberries offer a wonderful sweet taste, marvelously supplemented by the fluffy dough of the crostata. Italian? The etymology of this place has as much order as a kid’s LEGO box with the root languages of loanwords a literal world away. Same for phrases like ‘end of the line’, famously uttered by Ralof in the game’s opening and later on echoed by me when sending off the Guardian of Bleak Falls Barrow. With an ‘asshole’ for emphasis because that’s just the kind of guy I am. I would assume ‘end of the line’ refers to the line of a bus or train, the point where your journey comes to an end whether you want it to or not, so such a phrase has no place in this pseudo-medieval setting.

Oh well, whatever. Not my field of expertise, let another Subject despair over this.

I have made no progress on unraveling the meaning of all this ever since the chance encounter with M’aiq the Liar. I think of all the stories where the protagonist rebels against a higher power that put them into a fake and/or alien reality and how different my experience is. In The Matrix and Dark City, the Agents and Strangers respectively were a constant presence to be fought and overcome. In Youjo Senki, Being X stated its purpose clearly and manifested multiple times in front of Tanya. Sword Art Online’s Kayaba didn’t appear again after he trapped everyone in virtual reality — or so it seemed — but he revealed how people could earn their freedom right at the outset.

But all I received from the Operator was cold, dead silence after all of ten words when I was uprooted from what I thought to be reality. I asked. I cursed. I raged. I challenged. I wailed. I never begged, though I came close. And always, the empty air remained just that. The milestone of defeating the first dragon would have been a good point for the Operator to appear, to state its purpose, to explain perhaps that I have to complete the main questline to earn release from my bondage. But nothing. I am left stranded, not on an island where there is still hope for a ship to crest the horizon, where the outside is still clearly there but out of reach. No matter how far I walk, no matter how high I climb, there is no escape from the shadows on the wall of Plato’s Cave.

For all I know I may as well have been forgotten after getting tossed into this simulation. Let it run its course and check the results afterwards.

I only have one more idea to disrupt this artificial environment, and that one is a longshot at best. Endless reflections in an array of mirrors didn’t break the ‘graphics’. Of course not; it didn’t back in the Main Simulation, why should it now. There is no such simple trick to force things into a stack overflow.

So the time has come. I need to escalate. I have avoided contact with the Divine so far, never so much as touching a shrine. The higher beings may be as oblivious as everyone else of their reality’s nature, but they also may well know more than I do. Or even serve as avatars for the powers behind all this, to effect change in the world whenever they see fit. They can give me answers the empty air would not volunteer.

I have to complete one of the Daedric quests.

Uthgerd soon comes to join us, sans armour; she left it with Arianne and Ulfberth for repair before we set out. The left pauldron and back plate of the cuirass at least need replacement with the punishment they endured, but while her steel plate is an expensive set her share from our raid makes the expenditure well affordable. “Milk again Ragnar?”

“You’re really going to tease me about my drinking habits after I led us to victory over Aela of the Circle?”

She smirks and sits down next to me. “Fine, have it your way. Do your thing, this one wasn’t at the Riverwood Trader.” This cheese is an almost milky-white with a much darker, coarse rind. At least she is adding some slices of ham to her sandwich. Damn it, I had the Babish video for the Croque Monsieur bookmarked but never got around to trying it. Fare thee well, YouTube. I’m gonna have to find a seal and teach it to clap, those clips were adorable.

The guardswoman begins to stir at last and her head comes to rest with the chin on the table instead of her left cheek. One of the Companions begins to giggle, and the merriment soon spreads when other eyes follow the lead of his pointing finger. The poor woman got sufficiently hammered to fall asleep with her head resting on a golden coin, now embedded into her cheek. Groggy fingers peel the intruder off. The imprint of some Emperor or another’s visage remains behind in enough detail to cast fresh coinage off of her weary face. “Did we seriously play the coin tossing game with a full Septim? That’s like my spending money for an entire week.”

“We used copper pieces at the original table,” I say with a chuckle. “Njada started another game late into the night but I didn’t keep track of things. Don’t think I would have survived a second round.”

Fast as dripping tar her table-bound head turns in place, half-lidded eyes focusing on me. She blinks once, twice, and shoots bolt upright with a suddenness that puts a rattlesnake snapping at its prey to shame. The abrupt rise of her body catapults her chair back and its clatter on the stone floor brings the room’s lethargy of hung-over stupor to a violent end. “My… my apologies for coming before you like this, my Thane!”

I stare at her, mouth still open to admit another morsel of sweet delight that will not come. “’My’ Thane? Does that mean what I think it does?”

“Yes my Thane! My name is Ciaragane, I have been assigned to serve as your housecarl. I’m at your command, my Thane!”

I inhale deeply and by some miracle manage to suppress a sigh. The poor girl is tense as the strings of a freshly tuned guitar. “Alright, first order — relax. Pick up your chair, and sit down. Trust me, no one here will hold it over your head last night’s festivities left a mark on you. I bet if another dragon had attacked this morning half of us would have slept right through it.” Hesitant hands comply with my command, and this ‘Yes my Thane’ is more subdued than her previous outbursts much to my ears’ pleasure. “Did you partake in the battle?”

“I did, my Thane. I was the one who dragged Farkas into that hole close to the end.”

“That was you? Well done then.” I had thought that was a guy, but with those full helmets obscuring the face it’s easy to slip up in the heat of battle.

Her answer draws quite the reaction from the assembled Companions. Within half a minute, she has a fresh cup of water and several plates with a selection of breakfast foods sitting in front of her. Kings and queens don’t get served with this level of eagerness. “Why didn’t you say something? We tried to find out who did that, but nobody claimed credit.” Ria, the Imperial woman who we supplanted as the most junior member of this ancient group.

“I… I was overwhelmed by the cheering of the townsfolk, and it felt awkward to bring it up later when I didn’t speak up before. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Ria wraps her in a sideways hug. “On behalf of the Companions, I express our eternal gratitude for your actions.”

A voice cuts in from the back of the room. “You’re less than a day removed from being our freshest pup and already you speak for all of us.”

“Shut up, Athis! You didn’t even have the courtesy to stand up for her so don’t give me any crap.”

I tune out their bickering. Instead my mouth takes a sip from my cup and my eyes proper measure of my housecarl. Waves of blond hair frame her face, the parts from the temple back gathered into a loose ponytail while the rest flows freely. Loose strands shoot off in every direction like the naked branches of a tree and desperately cry out for the ministrations of a comb. Well, I wasn’t any better when I rose this mor… noon, let’s be honest. Her skin has the tan of someone returning from a summer vacation on the Mediterranean, and I would place her somewhere in the early to mid twenties. The armour adds to her bulk, but underneath she likely has a normal figure. Certainly nothing approaching the Conanesque stature of our dear Uthgerd.

“Ciaragane, am I saying that right?” I wait for her confirmation. “Looks like we’ll spend a lot of time together, so tell me a bit about yourself please.”

“Yes my Thane. I have been with the city guard since I was twelve. I have been trained with spear, shield, sword and bow, though I prefer a mace. I have also been training the schools of Restoration and Conjuration, and know the spells Conjure Familiar, Healing and Healing Hands. I started learning a ward but…”

I raise a hand and she comes to a halt. “All good to know, but I was rather wondering about you as a person. Like, how did you end up with the guard at so young an age, are your parents members? And are you able to leave Whiterun on short notice, we intend to set out for High Hrothgar at first light tomorrow.”

“Yes my Thane.” She pauses a moment to consider where to start. “My family comes from the Reach, but the conflict with the Forsworn killed my father, and then mother fled to Rorikstead. She couldn’t provide for three children on her own and since I am the oldest I said I would leave and take an apprenticeship. The Jarl offers a place for orphans and other children in need and that’s how I came to be in his service.” I had no idea this is the case. You’re a decent bloke, Balgruuf. “I send mother some money when I can, but I have nothing tying me down in Whiterun. It is my duty to follow and serve you, my Thane.”

“Good. And you don’t need to say ‘my Thane’ all the time. You don’t say the other person’s name in conversation all the time either, do you.” The uncertainty is written plain on her face, but she doesn’t object. “And I think it is quite commendable you go to such efforts to look out for your family, especially when you were still so young. Anyway, what about equipment, is the guard uniform something you can keep?”

“No my Thane, I have to return it to the armoury before we leave. But I have been provided fifty Septims for you to outfit me for my task.”

I pause a moment to make sure she did finish without ending with ‘my Thane’. “Then we have some shopping to do. And we still have some pieces left from Bleak Falls Barrow. Is a chainmail hauberk alright with you? Still need to get you a gambeson or the like to wear underneath, but otherwise it is good to use.” This one is riveted at least so it should better withstand thrusting attacks, though still wrought iron instead of steel.

“Yes my Thane, I should be able to make use of that.”

“Excellent.” Hindsight really is 20/20. We found a quality steel mace on the bandits, but already sold it to Lucan Valerius. For half its value, and now I need to buy a new one. “I want you to keep focusing on the schools of Restoration and Conjuration. I myself specialize in Alteration, with Destruction as a secondary. I also have some spell tomes for you, Cure Poison, Sparks and Bound Quiver.” Though first I have to make sure her casting the spell will create bolts transferable to me; in the games, bound weapons couldn’t leave your hand, the spell terminated immediately. But of course, projectiles from the Bound Bow or Bound Quiver by necessity have to work differently. “I want you to work on these when you can, and I’ll see if I can get Soul Trap and an amulet of Akatosh for you as well from Farengar.”

I never use the word ‘flabbergasted’. I should burn the image of her expression into my mind as a mental reference. “My Thane, these things are very expensive, much in excess of the fifty Septims I have been provided…”

I wave her concern off. “I have most of the tomes already and too little time to split my attention between that many schools of magic. Call it a long-term investment. You are my housecarl, I am your Thane, so it stands to reason expanding your abilities is in both of our interests, right?” A tense nod answers me. Now how best to give her a chance to clean herself up without the discourtesy of outright telling her to… “How long would it take you to pack everything you need for the journey so I can see what else we need to pick up from the shops?”

“I’d finish and return here within the hour, my Thane.”

“Take one and a half, and feel free to eat some breakfast first. I’ll either be in the hall or up at the Skyforge.”

“Yes my Thane, thank you.” It isn’t long until she departs; she doesn’t seem that comfortable sitting around and eating while I am still present. I resolve to fill the meantime with an exploration of Jorrvaskr’s rather meager library spread over many shelves. Somewhere north of a hundred titles, a good number of them fiction, standards like History of the Empire or related to practical matters like hunting or slaying certain kinds of beasts. Of course, this isn’t the place to find scholarly treatises. A book called Alduin is Real catches my interest, but it would be overly generous to call it useless instead of any less flattering terms. The barefoot walk through the broken glass path of the author’s spelling to ascertain he has nothing new to say is a short enough affair, otherwise the twitch of my left eye might become chronic. The only reason these ramblings ended up a bound book instead of three loose pieces of paper lies in the fact that the author wrote with the hand of someone trying to carve a message into stone with a sledgehammer.

Ralof at last joins us, and from an unexpected direction — one of the side-rooms at the ends of the long hall, where the planks of the walls converge on one another. “Good morning sunshine!”

He mumbles a half-hearted response to my greeting. “What happened towards the end? I woke up in a strange bed, and the room was locked from the inside.”

“You don’t remember?”

Ralof shakes his head and immediately winces from the too rapid motion. Driven by careful slowness he takes a seat.

The smile on Uthgerd’s face speaks of thorough enjoyment in his discomfort. “A lot of women ended up propositioning you for a little get-away, apparently driven by the idea that your loins hold the fruit of some royal blood.”

The specter of memory paints a grimace on his features. “That does ring a bell, yes.”

“Well, at some point you were drunk enough to no longer object when a pair of them decided to share you, more carrying than leading their prize. Lucky you. Are we quite sure the Dragonborn is favoured by Akatosh and not Dibella?”

This time Ralof’s face shows no recollection, and the pause tortures him like an inquisitor’s rack, stretching and stretching with each turn of the handle. “What happened then?”

Uthgerd smirks, but finally grants the poor man release. “I put you over my shoulder, ignored their feeble protests and dropped you into the next bed I could find. Locked the door, left through a window and returned here. You were clearly done, but I wasn’t.”

Ralof exhales his relief. “Thank you Uthgerd, you are a good friend. Oh, and Ragnar: shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but it is written loud and clear on your face.”

Heh. I guess that’s true. “Fair enough. We still have to meet Eorlund up at the Skyforge, you’re up for it?”

Ralof slowly presses out a breath through tight lips. “I think I’ll manage.”

The impermeable black growl above promises a downpour in the near future, all but certain to coincide with my planned shopping trip because Murphy hasn’t been enough of a bitch lately. But while wet and cold are sure to come, right now the air about us is dry and hot. The ring of coals glowing white and orange is wide enough to admit a shield fit for the Attack Titan, and the hunched-over stone likeness of a raven spreading its wings around the Skyforge’s flanks might rival Mirmulnir in size. No soot or ash mar the gray stone feathers even though the bird provides a slanted roof to the blaze of the forge and I again suspect magical bullshit. Really, they must have some supernatural method to preserve these ancient structures. Most of all the wooden roof of Jorrvaskr, unless the namesake vessel has long since become the fourth or fifth iteration of a Ship of Theseus.

In spite of his ambulatory deficiency Ralof finds the trip well worth his while. A set of throwing axes wipes the fatigue from his face as sure as a syringe of adrenaline and caffeine to the heart would. “These are lovely. I haven’t found another good set after I lost my old one when they captured us at the border. You truly are a master of metal, Eorlund.” Forged from a single piece of Damascus-patterned Skyforge steel each they have the shape of a four-pointed shuriken with one side stretched into a handle and another widening into an ax head instead of narrowing to a point. No matter which side ends up hitting the target, they will regret the experience.

The old smith smiles at the Dragonborn’s praise. “Then take them, boy. You already got a nice pair of axes for melee, but it would hurt my pride if a new brother or sister were to refuse a weapon from my forge.”

Skyforge steel might stand head and shoulders above its common sibling, but it can’t compete with the literal blood of gods crystallized into workable ore that is ebony. But while the ax of Ingmorn Frost-Reaver claims penetrative power well beyond anything on display here, it is also unwieldy and not as suited to Uthgerd’s long-honed skill at blade forms. Thus she ends selecting a replacement for her shattered sword for all the occasions where she doesn’t need to cut through plate or dragonbone. It is a similar design to her previous blade with parrying hooks above the crescent crossguard ending in the shape of a claw on either side. Black ripples radiate out from drops spread along the medial ridge of the blade to cover the bright steel pond’s surface with a mesmerizing pattern. Is this then the secret of Skyforge steel, another high-carbon layer mixed into the material and folded over and over to result in these familiar designs?

The man said to be Skyrim’s most skillful smith approaches me as I inspect a selection of crossbows. “That’s what catches your interest, eh? I don’t think it is much better than the one you already have. Perhaps you’d rather have a new sidearm?”

“Perhaps,” I say. “To be honest I wasn’t even certain you make these. Does anyone else use them?”

“As a secondary weapon, yes. But you’d be the first to specialize in it in… oh, I guess it has been thirty years by now since Freydis went missing on a contract?” His eyes get lost on the eastern horizon for a moment. “I wish I could offer something better to you, but Skyforge steel doesn’t give much advantage in the parts of a crossbow.”

“Well then, how do you feel about trying something… special.”

That seems to catch his interest. “What do you mean?”

I spread out my sketches over the stone table. “Have a look.”

Once again, thank you YouTube, and the Slingshot Channel in particular. The principles used here are simple and well within the limits of medieval technology, and yet yield a result well ahead of what was historically fielded in battle. From crossbow to repeater crossbow with an integrated bottom-fed magazine, a simple steel spring all it takes to push the bolts upward. Refilling the depleted magazine would take some time, but that’s where I had an idea dear Jörg lacked, for to him reloading was not a matter of life or death: stripper clips as used in bolt action rifles starting in… I don’t know, somewhere around 1900 I guess? It’s not like I can check Wikipedia anymore.

Low-hanging fruit. Fuck trying to figure out how to build a steam engine from scratch.

“Is this another thing like the fire flasks Reinhardson?”

“Yes,” I say with a smile so evil my dimples do their best to burrow a tunnel all the way through my head. “But probably meaner.”

Ralof stares at an eager Eorlund who has started to make sketches of his own and ask for clarifications on my outlines. “If the Imperials ever try to hire you, I promise I’ll convince Jarl Ulfric to pay double.”

o-o-o-o

My prediction about the coming downpour coinciding with my shopping trip has a most unfortunate accuracy to it, especially since in this tiered city all the shops are located on the lowest level. The amassed dirt and dust of countless boots trampling the street washes down the waterfall of the stairs between the Wind and Plain Districts, a fleet of black grains on a journey that will lead them ever down until they reach the wide plains surrounding the raised fist of Whiterun. Wherever there are windows the shutters are closed. Light escaping through the cracks between the wooden panes tells of warmth and comfort separated from wet and misery by a fiercely guarded border. It should go without saying that the first shop my splashing steps lead me to is the tailor who made a layered wool cloak for my perusal. I will learn all too soon whether it holds up to his promise of water-resistance. The colours of the reversible garment will provide decent camouflage in different terrains, green for forests, gray for caves and rock. Alas, no white for snow-torn landscapes, so I will not become a crossbow sniper who earns the nickname of The White Death as Simo Häyhä did in the Winter War.

Of course, my housecarl gets a new hooded cloak as well, because I’m not a complete monster. A simple bow, gambeson, helmet, mace and round shield, center-grip instead of strapped, round out her armament, plus a strong belt to take some of the hauberk’s weight off her shoulders. The spiked mace is rather a morning star by my reckoning, but the term isn’t used around here it seems. Ciaragane already had most other traveling essentials in her possession, though I feel the bedroll she brought is too thin for the outdoors so we end up replacing it. I am extraordinarily grateful this world already knew foldable camp beds without the need for me to ‘invent’ them. Sleeping on the bare ground without so much as an inflatable mattress or camping mat is not pleasant.

Mace, shield and healing magic… I have acquired a cleric at last! It is about time. Since Farkas was tasked with accompanying our group of freshly minted Companions I was up to a party of Fighter, Fighter, Barbarian, Rogue/Cleric/Wizard. Was I supposed to handle everything that doesn’t boil down to ‘beat up baddies with a pointy piece of metal’?

Well then, welcome aboard Ciaragane. I probably would have been happy with any specialization on her part; if she had Destruction instead of Restoration, I could just leave the blasting to her and handle the healing myself. The only thing I’m hard set on is taking Alteration as my primary. And I’m curious to hear her play the panpipe from among her sparse personal effects. It is a lovely instrument and a bit of music might sweeten the long road ahead of us.

I had been summoned to attend the Jarl’s council at the eighteenth hour, so of course my time outdoors doesn’t come to an end yet because, again, Murphy demands I repay all the luck I had so far with compound interest. I leave my cloak in the main chamber over a chair close to the firepit to let the drenched outer layer dry out, then ascend the stairs at the back wall. The council chamber is right above. Massive granite slabs divided by a grid of plaster contain the room from every direction instead of the wooden walls of the entrance hall. The long table is dominated by a parchment map of Skyrim so large a cow must have surrendered its skin from head to tail for its creation. When I enter Irileth rises from her chair and bows her body into a perfect right angle that would make an engineer weep with heartfelt joy. “Thane Ragnar.”

“Irileth.” I incline my head. You do not bow to a Thane. This show of respect of hers was personal, not a matter of rank. “I’m glad to see you well enough to join us.”

I arrived a few minutes early. The council soon completes with the Jarl sitting at the head of the table. Irileth, Proventus and Farengar are to his right, and opposite them Kodlak White-Mane and myself. The subtleties of seating arrangements have a lot of hidden meaning to them. The direct servants of the Jarl sit to his right, in order of rank. Technically Irileth doesn’t outrank the steward and court wizard, but the place of a housecarl is always at the side of their master, taking precedence over such hierarchy. Outsiders are seated to the left, and of course the Harbinger outranks me. As both a Thane and Companion I might have qualified for either side. Is this a subtle message then, a way for Balgruuf to tell me he considers me an independent agent, that he will not stick his neck out for me should my schemes lead into a viper’s den?

“Thank you for coming, everyone.” The Jarl’s elbows rest on the table, hands folded. “There is a matter pertaining to yesterday’s battle that deserves our attention. Irileth?”

His housecarl raises her hand and two guardsmen step forward, each carrying an assortment of weapons wrapped into leather bundles. They deposit them on the ground in two piles, then depart. The room is left empty but for the five people at the table.

Kodlak’s brow scrunches up in confusion. “What is this about?”

I leave my seat and kneel down to inspect the weapons, most of them spears and harpoons though a scant few swords and axes are mixed in as well. I think that is the spear I saw splintered, or it might be another that fell to the ground to end up under the dragon’s step. I pick one of them up and brush over the bare metal with my thumb. The tip is bent out of shape, the pointy end no longer facing forward but to the side. “None of the iron weapons are bloodied.”

“Indeed.” I look back to Irileth. “All of the soldiers bearing iron weaponry reported they were unable to pierce the dragon’s hide. Things are more muddled with arrows, it was hard to tell whether a penetrating projectile was yours or someone else’s. But I firmly believe the bone plate was impervious to anything lesser than solid steel, and even then it required considerable effort to strike deep enough to draw blood.”

Very astute. I wouldn’t have noticed. I return to my seat when Balgruuf speaks again. His gaze meets mine. “I hear weaponry forged of ebony was exceptionally effective.”

I nod. “It was, Jarl Balgruuf.”

“Sadly this is no option for outfitting larger numbers of troops. Perhaps a few elite fighters though. Proventus, what of your inquiries?”

The balding steward grimaces; he doesn’t seem to enjoy being the bearer of bad news. “The cost would be… prohibitive. Not to mention supply. Another shipment is due to arrive in two weeks’ time, but the quantities are never meant for larger scale production. A suit of armour, a few weapons, nothing more.”

The Jarl turns to his left. “Kodlak, could the Skyforge increase its output? Everybody saw that Skyforge steel could pierce the beast’s hide.”

The Harbinger shakes his head. “Eorlund produces enough to supply the Companions, but not much more than that. And it is long-standing tradition to only pass these weapons into the hands of another Companion. I might be able to look past time-honoured custom in light of this unprecedented threat, but even then I could offer nothing more than a few spare pieces from our armoury. But Eorlund said he wants to experiment with the dragonbone, see if anything could come of that.”

“Hm… Arrowheads?”

“I’m afraid not, Balgruuf.” Heh, interesting slip up. So the two of them are on a first name basis. “The material is too tough to divide it into many smaller pieces. You have to find one that already approximates the desired shape.”

“Dwarven metal.” Four pairs of eyes focus on me. “It’s not quite ebony, but certainly better than common steel. And there are ample quantities in these ancient ruins if one delves into their unexplored reaches and overcomes what remains of their defences.”

Balgruuf contemplates in silence for a long while. His right hand is folded over the fist of his left, and the index finger keeps tapping up and down. “Farengar, where would the nearest Dwemer ruin be?”

“I know of no such structures in our Hold, my Jarl,” the court wizard says. “But my library lists many such sites in the other Holds, some within easy reach of our borders.”

“Not Falkreath,” Balgruuf says with finality. “Siddgeir is a flighty one, and I already provoked him with the garrison placed in Riverwood. Under no circumstances can I move troops near his borders, much less over them.”

Farengar searches his memory. After a few moments, he points out a place on the map. “Raldbthar. Cross the White River at Valtheim and ascend into the mountains. You will reach the entrance after about thirty miles as the eagle flies. It is barely inside The Pale and there are no settlements or fortifications along the way.”

The Jarl nods with a satisfied smile. “Perfect. What kind of defences are to be expected, Farengar?”

The court wizard falters, as though right now he’d like nothing more than to press pause and return some hours later after consulting his books. “Ah…”

Seeing him squirm is quite enjoyable, I have to admit, but nevertheless I decide to put him out of his misery. “The most common Dwarven automaton is in the shape of a spider, about the size of a large dog. It can shoot a lightning bolt but otherwise should be manageable in melee for an experienced warrior. The next is a rolling sphere from which a body can unfold a little taller than a man, these are melee fighters. Watch out for tubes running out of the walls. Given their metal construction I would recommend blunt weapons instead of edged ones. In the deepest reaches guarding the most precious treasures one may find a much larger, humanoid automaton called centurion, if one delves too greedily and too deep.” I have half a feeling the first time the Operator deigns to talk to me again will be to serve me a notice of copyright violation. “Apart from that, one may find traps, fire, steam, shooting spears, so always watch where you step. And of course, the ruins may since have become home to whatever else likes to dwell outside the watchful eye of the sun. Outlaws, beasts, perhaps Falmer in the lower parts.”

Balgruuf gives his wizard an inquisitive look. “That… sounds accurate, Jarl Balgruuf.”

“I’ll ask Skjor as well when I get back,” Kodlak says. “He once was part of an expedition going into a Dwemer ruin in Hammerfell. I never get its name right, Mefarnaz or something like that?”

“His experience will be appreciated, Kodlak. He may make a good leader for the expedition as I’d like an equal number of Companions and my men to go out in case the group encounters any of Skald’s troops after all. Please talk with Proventus after we conclude here to negotiate the details.”

“Of course, Jarl Balgruuf.”

“I will then select suitable soldiers for our detachment and lead them.” All four of us turn to Irileth, and I’d wager you could hit shuffle on the thoughts running through our heads and not end up with much of a difference.

But of course, it falls to the Jarl himself to rein in his overeager servant. “Irileth, you lost your arm a mere day ago, I can’t send you off to brave such dangers…”

“Respectfully, my Jarl, I can still use my sword, I can still cast spells, though no longer at the same time. But even as I am, I could best nine men out of ten in our garrison.”

“I have little doubt that you can.” A deep sigh escapes the Jarl and he slumps back in his chair with a crooked posture fit to make a chiropractor wince. “Fine, I will let you go out in the field again. But not this time. You will take some weeks to recover and listen to the advice of the healers in the meantime. And that’s final.”

Having reached the point where no further objection is possible, Irileth lowers her head in resignation. “As you wish my Jarl.”

“Good. Then hereby this council has concluded.”

My cloak is dry and will soon be heavy with wet again before it will find yet another fire at Jorrvaskr to warm its tired folds. But before that I have to drop off a coded message with the Brotherhood contact inside the Drunken Huntsman.

‘Dear Erica,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’m currently en route to make my delivery. I’m traveling with Rollo. You remember him, right? He was with me the first time we met. After I’m done we will continue uphill, he has been called on some urgent family matter. Perhaps you have heard of it. Anyway, once I’m back in Whiterun it would be good if we could meet, a lot has happened since the last time we saw each other.

Always with you in my thoughts,  
Wick’

Yeah, I just had to. You give me freedom to choose my Brotherhood alias, that’s what you get.

Tomorrow, a group of five will set out for High Hrothgar: Ralof, Uthgerd, Farkas and I along with my housecarl, as well as two pack mules given the increased size of our party.

And along the way, Ivarstead will feel the tender caress of the Sweet Mother.


	10. Comes a Horseman

“Do I really have to my Thane?”

“Yes you do Ciara. Now stop being coy and show us what you got.”

She reveals her hand; three of a kind. She has won. Again.

Uthgerd throws down her cards. “I saw a man block an arrow with the pendant around his neck and he was less lucky than she is.”

Ciara fidgets, unsure where to turn her eyes. “I was born under the sign of the Lover. It is considered fortuitous so I never tried any of the Guardian Stones.”

I pile up the cards and begin to shuffle. The impact of the rain above provides a constant drone of inescapable white noise. Balgruuf decided to send fresh supplies to the garrison at Valtheim a few days ahead of schedule to give us a ride through this wretched weather, much to our relief. Each second, the lamentations of the skies weep a thousand tears for everyone who died in this war of brother against brother. “I took the Mage right after we left Helgen and I’ll probably stick with it for a good while. What about everyone else?” Uthgerd cuts the deck and I begin to deal.

“I’ve used the Warrior ever since I was a child,” Ralof says. “With the Guardians so close to Riverwood everyone gives it a try, but I was the only one in my family who succeeded. Perhaps less surprising now I know what fate had in store for me.” Somewhere south of one in ten people are accepted by the Standing Stones; for everyone else they just remain cold, dead rock. Not so much the control of the Guardian Stones would give Whiterun an insurmountable advantage in raising its troops, but not so few either my own success would raise eyebrows.

“No luck for me, at the cards or the stones. Tried years ago.” Uthgerd’s complaining can’t be justly attributed to her coarse character. Her luck here has been rotten indeed.

Farkas picks up his cards and he might have gotten something decent this time; a poker face, he has not. ”You should maybe try again. The Warrior didn’t take me when I was a lad, but some years down the line I had a contract guarding a woman who was treasure hunting out on Lake Ilinalta. The Lady Stone is in the middle on an island, and it accepted me.”

“Well, the only one nearby is the Ritual Stone and the necromancers can keep that one to themselves. Though we might want to check on it anyway, it attracts ill-intentioned loons like no other place.”

I let my frown at her words coincide with the moment I pick up my cards. “I suppose this storm makes for a suitably dramatic backdrop to your vile summonings, but even the staunchest necromancer must prefer sipping a warm beverage in front of a tavern fire right now.”

Farkas smirks. “You’d be surprised.”

My palm covers weary eyes resigned to their fate. “If there _are_ any necromancers, they don’t die easy for making us walk through that.”

For once my prophetic abilities are quite unintended.

Step after splashing step leads us up the slick stone path towards the summit where the Ritual Stone sits before the silhouette of a far less ornate trilithon. The translucent whiteness of an eagle perches atop the lintel and gazes down at the reason for its needless summoning: the charnel pilgrim who sought to claim the stone’s fell power lies already dead and offers no more resistance to Uthgerd’s examination. “Cuts from a blade. Onehanded I would guess.”

“Like this?” I pick up a sword ravaged by rolls and chips from among an ash pile turned to sludge by the rain. “Did his own creation turn on him? Can that even happen?” In the game it didn’t. But there you also always got a spectral wolf from the Conjure Familiar spell, not an eagle like Ciara. So what do I know.

“Don’t know anything about that, but it was probably someone else who killed him. Unless he wandered about without a single copper to his name. Robes still look good though with a bit of cleaning and stitching.”

A sizable boost to magicka regeneration once again. Not all that convenient to use when robes preclude you from wearing armour. Here, for my housecarl currently equipped with a mundane mail hauberk? Pure gold. You give me a mage follower, I’ll do my best to whip her into shape. What is an eagle now can become an array of successively stronger atronachs later on. Disposable minions are one of the most convenient things to have to ensure your survival in battle. Ask anyone.

On our return to the pair of carts we are met with an unexpected sight; the other four guards have left their cover from the elements and stand fanned out with weapons drawn, their posture unsure and hesitant. Walking a bit further, I finally spot the reason for their alarm: the pale shape of a translucent rider, the horse a mere whisper of nothingness while his headless body is of a more sturdy, radiant white, halfway between the mount’s lack of substance and the glow of my old moon in a clear night sky.

The headless horseman. I have met him but once in the game, somewhere near Markarth. Futilely chased after his galloping figure in the vain hope it might lead me somewhere; perhaps the site of his death, where a proper burial of the remains would put the specter to rest. But, as a look in the wiki later confirmed, there was nothing. No quest, no deeper story was connected to this ghostly rider who fills my companions with timid unease while I just wait for him to stride past so all this is over with and I can return to some pleasant dryness.

But the horseman reins in his mount’s stride and raises a hand when he comes to a stop in front of us. “Halt, in the name of Gaius Julius Caesar.” My head jerks back and my eyes make an honest attempt to burst from my skull like a pair of popped pimples. “I, who once wandered Oblivion, seek a brave and knowledgeable soul who now wanders Skyrim, if you dare face my wits.”

I would be no less stunned if he declared himself to be Little Red Riding Hood out to deliver food to her frail old grandmother. The others are apprehensive as well, if for quite different reasons, and I am the first to speak up. My first word comes as little more than a stuttered whisper and I start over to speak with more confidence. “Hail Caesar, you who _roam_ this land.” I hope he catches the homophone; I don’t have much time to think of a way to surreptitiously identify myself. “I, Ragnar, son of Reinhard, would face you to learn your _otherworldly_ wisdom.”

I can tell he focuses on me. The uneasy sensation of feeling yourself watched but not knowing where from puts a Gordian knot in my stomach. “Ragnar, son of Reinhard. I accept your challenge. Leave us, for my words are but his to hear.” His voice is low and cavernous, as if he were speaking through a tuba.

It takes some urging, but in the end I convince the others to leave me alone with this ghost of days long past. Once they are out of earshot I finally burst out what I held back with the desperation of a man about to puke hurrying for the toilet. “ _Julius Caesar_?”

“Hey dude, gotta use something that would be recognizable to you no matter where you’re from while still fitting into this world.” He laughs, a string of firecrackers thrown down a manhole cover. “My real name is Andrés, but I went with Tyrion when I got here. Small man, large world, you know.”

“Ah, I see you are a man of culture as well.” We share a chuckle at the memery. I belatedly realize I should have just name-dropped my mule Bethesda to reveal myself. “As said I go by Ragnar now, before that I was Sascha.”

“Wait, you’re a—“

“Sascha is a male name in German.”

“Oh…” Seeing a ghost fidget with embarrassment is quite the experience. “Sorry about that.”

I wave his concern off. “Don’t be. How did you manage to find me?”

“I knew you’d have to take the road to High Hrothgar some time after killing a dragon. Wasn’t sure whether it would be the same one though so I kept patrolling around the mountain after Helgen got destroyed. And I’m like, that’s Farkas so it’s gotta be you. Is the big one Uthgerd? Guess so from the armour and sword, but dude she looks nothing like in Bijin’s.”

“Not every flower can be a rose, though I assure you she has plenty of thorns,” I say with a bemused smile. “The other girl is Ciaragane, my housecarl. Lydia died before I met her when she was sent to retrieve the Dragonstone. The blond guy is Ralof, from the tutorial.” My gaze focuses on where the rider’s eyes would be. “Listen. I’m not the Dragonborn. He is.”

My fellow victim of simulated hardship remains silent for a long while. “That is… unexpected. I saw some differences, but nothing of that magnitude. Just what was necessary to transform things into a functioning, full-fledged world, you know? I don’t suppose you got any explanation from whoever is running this?”

“I call it the Operator, and no. Not so much as a whisper ever since the moment of transfer. Now tell me, how did you end up as the headless horseman?”

“Afterlife wouldn’t take me. From what I can tell it is mostly tied to certain races, and while we may pass for Nord or Imperial, in the end we’re not. Though it may also be because I died inside an Oblivion Gate. I never saw a ghost of the other Subjects.”

“Others… You mean Morrowind, Daggerfall and…” I trail off; what was the first game called again?

“No.” His shoulders twist left and right. I’m left with the distinct impression his nonexistent head turned about to scan for other listeners. “I didn’t start in that prison cell. I woke up in the Merchants Inn in the Market District, with a note on the table leading me to a water-logged cave north of the city. That’s where I found her body, along with the Amulet of Kings and a journal describing the main quest so far. I don’t think she lasted long after the tutorial. I made it through the Oblivion Gate in Kvatch. Managed to recruit that Orc from the arena, and he went at the Daedra like a badly tempered lawn mower. But the second one killed me, and there was a shift. I think that’s when my replacement got inserted. I saw him later, and he was already there before my death.”

“Hm… Merging two simulations into one, or perhaps nonlinear causality? That would also explain why the game we played could have the headless horseman already.”

His horse trots in place, but otherwise remains still, not so much as a snort. Its hooves make no sound as they touch the ground and the rain just keeps falling through the both of them as if they weren’t there. “Changing the past? Come on man, this whole thing is enough of a headache already!”

“Well, the alternative rather puts our free will into question, given the ability to perfectly predict things that haven’t happened yet. How many Subjects did it take to complete Oblivion?”

“At least four. Look into your history books whether the one who was with Martin in the end was a woman with black hair and rings in her nose and lower lip. Yes, she kept her piercings.” My expression must have spoken my question loud and clear. “If not, there was a fifth, and possibly more still.”

“I see.” I take some steps through the sodden ground in quiet contemplation. “That could explain why I wasn’t made the Dragonborn. We Subjects are expendable and can be replaced, but the Last Dragonborn is unique by definition.” And all this just when I was lauding the usefulness of expendable minions you send to their deaths… “I think our souls or whatever got inserted into a sort of blank. I saw one of them. M’aiq the Liar. He was just an empty shell with no person inside, an automaton speaking stock lines. That may be what was in that cart before me, and in that inn before you.”

“That bonkers Khajiit? Interesting. Oblivion had him too, but I never met him. Here, I mean. I still have no clue what all this is about. But they keep watch on us. They may or may not be able to look in from the outside, but I think they also have boots on the ground. A guardsman came to the inn before I woke up, likely to place that letter. And I noticed one of them following my successor.”

The Hold guards. Of course. They can go pretty much anywhere and keep an eye on you without arousing suspicion. And with the full helmets obscuring their face I would never notice if it is the same one coming across my path time and again. How many times did I walk past a guardsman in Whiterun and not pay them any mind? “Intriguing… I’ll keep an eye out. Now before I forget it, did you play the expansions of Skyrim? I only know Dawnguard was about vampires and Hearthfire about home building, but I know nothing about Dragonborn.”

“Aww dude, you were put here without having played the expansions? That’s rough.” I can well imagine the contemplative look on his nonexistent features as he mulls over what to tell me. “Didn’t replay the game with Dragonborn active, already had a thousand hours logged and that felt well enough… You go up against the First Dragonborn Miraak. New place called Solstheim, an island somewhere to the north, that’s all I know. I played through Dawnguard, but on the side of the vampires.” He seems sheepish for a moment, but I understand; what is exciting while gaming can be well different from what we would do if put into this situation for real. “I would assume that’s not what you intend.”

“Not a chance.”

“Very well. Castle Volkihar, on an island off the coast to the very north-west of Skyrim. Vampire clan of the same name led by Harkon. They’re vampire lords, a more powerful kind with a beast-like transformation.” Lovely. Just lovely. “His plan is to collect some artifacts for a ritual to blot out the sun.”

“He WHAT?”

“You heard me.”

“But… the sun is a hole into Aetherius, that’s where all the magicka of the world flows from!” I unconsciously pace several steps with my hands on my hooded head. “Wouldn’t that make magic vanish completely, or at the very least reduce it to a shadow of its former strength with only the much smaller stars left?”

“Huh… You got me, I never thought about that part.” He turns his horse around and follows me. Now I think about it, might as well keep walking so I will sooner catch up with the others. “If you want to stop it without having to fight him, best bet would be to get your hands on Auriel’s Bow or that Elder Scroll first.”

“Wait, he has an _Elder Scroll_?”

“Three actually, by the end of it.” I’m too numb to scream or wail, and if I wasn’t I don’t know which one I’d pick. ”The first one is how the questline starts. The Dawnguard sends you to an old crypt where you find an entombed Serana, a vampire carrying an Elder Scroll. Great follower. She’s really old, first era I think. You bring her home to Castle Volkihar and then you choose whether to side with the vampires or the Dawnguard.”

“… You’re telling me you deliver an Elder Scroll to the vampires even if you end up siding against them.”

We walk and ride in silence for a while. “Fair enough, I won’t try to justify that one.”

“Remember where that crypt is?”

“Not precisely. Somewhere in the snow-covered mountain range north of Whiterun.”

“That must be several thousand square kilometers, no chance I’ll find that without more to go on.” This place really puts an emphasis on the wide part of wide open sandbox. No longer do you find a map marker after each minute or two of walking in a random direction.

“No, likely not. This is the first task the Dawnguard gives you, but with the world not holding its breath for you it may well go to someone else. Or the vampires already there are quicker. And joining the Dawnguard will be inconvenient, their castle is far east of Riften, off the map inside a hidden vale. I’m not even sure it’s still part of Skyrim instead of Morrowind.”

“So I don’t have the time to do this with two wars going on, and even if I did it would be a crapshoot to be given the plot-critical mission, and even then I may already be too late.”

“Yeah.” The void above his neckline snickers. “Pretty much.”

This is all just too much when things aren’t put on pause while I ignore them. Alduin. The civil war. The College. Now Miraak, and a bunch of super vamps who want to drown the world in darkness. Too many threats, too little time. I need to… consolidate.

I almost lose my balance when a vicious giggle bends me over and robs my breath. “I may have an idea for that.”

“What is it?”

I tell him.

The full-throated laughter from the abyss of his voice reverberates through the air. “Dude, if you pull this off it will be legendary.”

“I’ll certainly try,” I say with a smirk. “If this is some kind of Truman Show the viewers got to get their money’s worth.”

“Hey, before we part, any chance you know whether Tyrion is actually a Targaryen and all the rest of it? I devoured the books after I got hooked on the first few seasons of the show, it has been plaguing me ever since.”

“Sorry my man, I’ve been waiting for The Winds of Winter for nine years and counting. I was taken in 2020. You?”

“2017.”

“The TV show concluded, but it was a letdown to be honest. And many plot threads from the books were never touched upon, like the three heads of the dragon for example.”

“Who sits the Iron Throne in the end?”

I wince. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Tell me.”

I exhale until my lungs feel empty enough to freeze-dry a side of bacon. “Bran.”

“… _Bran_?”

“Daenerys snaps after winning the final battle against Cersei and drowns King’s Landing in dragonfire. Her lover Jon kills her before she can start a bloody crusade to free the entire world from oppression. Afterwards the lords of the realm convene to choose a successor and Tyrion nominates Bran because, and I quote, he has the best story. Everyone sort of agrees and that’s pretty much the end of it.”

I let the silence linger. Explaining the whole business with the Night King as well would be a cruelty fit for Ramsay himself. “You know, I went through hundreds of scenarios in my head, but I never arrived at anything close to _that_.”

“I hear you. For what it’s worth, millions felt the same way. If we had a Dark Brotherhood equivalent back home they would probably have been drowned in Black Sacraments for the two showrunners.” We trudge along in silence for a while, accompanied by the patter of rain on the ground unwilling to yield to the ferocious onslaught. The main roads are built well; a welcome mercy. “Did you really spend hundreds of years here as a ghost?”

“Most of it is a blur. I think I lost the sense of time with no need to eat, drink, sleep or breathe. Just drifted along, like when you lie half asleep in bed. But it has to come to an end at some point. I can’t spend eternity like this.”

“True.” My head nods unseen, hidden in the shadow of my hood. “If I can find a way to help you I will. There must be books on ghost lore. Your circumstances might be unique, but there were others who were prevented from moving on. Perhaps something can be done.”

Once we conclude I hustle to catch up to the others. Only the heroic efforts of my cloak prevented me from getting soaked to the bone, but even as it is a change into dry garment is much desired. “Welcome back Reinhardson. How did it go?”

“Good.” I wipe the sodden tresses at the side of my face. Just my luck we are travelling against the wind. “We exchanged riddles and I won some of his knowledge of the things that are yet to come.”

Ralof nudges me in the shoulder. “I tried to offer odds, but they demanded three to one to bet against you.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Nice to have a reputation.”

“Enough chatter,” Uthgerd cuts in. “What did you learn from the headless horseman?”

“A warning.” I could use this opportunity to introduce almost any piece of outside knowledge. It was no easy decision, but I feel good with the choice I made. “An ancient artifact of great power stirs in its forgotten tomb, disturbed by an excavation of the College of Winterhold. A Thalmor named Ancano seeks to claim this Eye of Magnus for his own and if he succeeds it will bring great calamity. The ghost spoke in vague tenses so I don’t know if all this is yet to come or has already started, but it is a portent we should not take lightly.”

Ralof has a serious look on his face, the same one I saw when we stood united against the Guardian of the Dragonstone. “I will inform Jarl Ulfric, Winterhold owes him fealty. Once we cross into Eastmarch we should find Stormcloak presence on the road or the wayside settlements.”

Ciaragane is more relieved than anyone else to see me safely return, an unseen pressure leaving her body as she slumps against the crate serving as her backrest. I can well see why; as housecarl she is sworn to protect me and one day in I send her away to face an unknown threat on my lonesome. “Sorry about not letting you stay at my side, Ciara, but the horseman demanded I speak to him alone. It is your duty to protect me, but if I should die to my own stupidity I promise the others will speak true and let no shame come to you.”

She cocks her head to the side and regards me with an inscrutable look. “That may be true my Thane, but shouldn’t my duty also include protecting you from your own foolishness, like when you try to dive head-first into a collapsing tunnel?”

I’m left gaping by her unexpected reply. The others burst out in laughter and Uthgerd wraps an arm around the smaller woman. “So you do have some spunk in you! Well said girl.”

I throw a reproachful look to the left, not sure whether to target Ralof or Farkas. “You know, I never did find out who spread that tale at the celebrations…”

Farkas fidgets in place, his right hand fiddling with the wolf’s head of his chest armour. “I mentioned we had met before I vouched for you at the ceremony and then it sort of slipped out when people asked about it. Sorry Ragnar.”

I turn away and chuckle. “Don’t be. I can’t just hide from my mistakes. By the way, I hear you owe Ralof a favour because he held your hair when he found you puking after you had one cup too many.”

Farkas’s eyes speak of utter betrayal when he looks at Ralof with quivering lips as another bout of laughter fills the cart, this time at his embarrassment instead of mine.

I close my eyes and smile in content ease. I have assembled a good group of people, nothing like the Confederacy of Assholes I collected in my recent Baldur’s Gate II playthrough with Korgan, Edwin, Dorn, Viconia and Hexxat.

Watch out Operator. Divine or not, I will strike at your throne.

o-o-o-o

The clouds have long since sown their seed when we arrive at Valtheim and continue on foot, but the fruit of their rain has not yet wilted. The White River roars high and fast, amplified by the sky’s dowry, and slick dirt crunches in protest when our step grinds it into the cobblestone beneath. At times, the corpses of sundered trees swim past, torn free from the soil that steadfastly held onto them for years and decades. But now, a bashful sun begins to pierce through the sky’s canopy and I inhale the earthy scent left in the storm’s wake while her warm rays comfort my body. With a different timing for our departure the last few days would have been a sharp misery to wear one to the bones, but rain and wind have already spent their anger.

Other travellers crossing our path become sparse to nonexistent once we leave the main road and enter a sharply winding trail snaking through vacant rock and bush towards Ivarstead. A pair of robed figures watches our departure from atop the parapet of a keep hugged by the road we just abandoned. Fort Amol. A well familiar place. The lone fixed location for a Bound Bow spell tome. When I tried my hand at a legendary difficulty playthrough my plan was to collect that tome right at the start and specialize in Conjuration for the insane damage of the Bound Bow and the benefit of summons. My theorycraft failed to account for the damage multiplier of the difficulty setting turning fights with elemental mages into rocket tag, except their rocket launchers are full auto while I have a nerf gun. Even with a potion of invisibility that was a pain on level 3, or whatever I was at that point.

Fare thee well, Fort Amol. You won’t put another notch into my death counter today.

Uthgerd is likewise glad to avoid this encounter. “Seems they will let us pass. Perhaps the girl’s luck is rubbing off on the rest of us.”

“You don’t like fighting mages?”

“Not one bit.” Uthgerd kicks at a stone and it skitters across the ground until it gets lost in the wayside shrubbery. “I suppose their panicked look when you finally corner them is nice enough, but that’s small comfort after they repeatedly tried to impale you on icicles.”

“True, we can be a pain to anyone who thinks they don’t need a ranged weapon,” Ciara says with a teasing smirk directed at Uthgerd.

The mighty warrior woman glares at her, lips compressed into a taut line, but in the end she just sighs in defeat. “Point taken. I _did_ pick up a crossbow before we left. Things worked well enough without before, but these dragons change things.”

I take care not to let them notice my lips quirk up. It is good to see Ciara hold her own after she was more timid in the beginning when thrust into an established group of friends and companions. Friends and Companions? Perhaps I should stop using the term in its colloquial sense.

We draw nearer to the Throat of the World and its snow-clad heights swallow up the entire horizon to our right. Mighty and ancient the mist-wrapped giant looms over us, a ravenous hulk that eats away several hours of the day when he hides the setting sun behind his imposing girth to cast us into twilight’s shadow. We go long stretches without finding signs of human habitation, a ramshackle hunter’s cabin to spend the night, a group of trappers camping next to the Treva River, but little more. One day we come across a victim of a rockslide set loose by the storm’s fury, but we are not the first to find his remains. Whoever came before us left him nothing but the torn shirt on his back without the decency of giving him a proper burial. We dig a shallow grave for the nameless victim and place the stones that claimed his life on top. Perhaps it will be enough to stop the roaming animals from digging up his remains. A short prayer to the Nine, where I keep careful eyes on Ciara and Farkas to make sure neither holds unspoken misgivings about including Talos, and we continue on our way.

Ivarstead is smaller than I expected, no more than two or three dozen houses. Certainly much more than in the game, but while Riverwood has become a major settlement and Whiterun a bustling city, this is still barely a village. It seems the mountainside soil does not offer many places suited to growing crops. The outlying farms we passed by all sported wide ranges of untamed grass for grazing cattle, but only a few plowed fields where shortly ago rows upon rows of golden soldiers stood at attention to await their harvest. We are in the tail end of Hearthfire now, this world’s equivalent of September, and before long the white desolation we will wade through on our seven thousand stepped ascent will spread out into land that was green and lush when I first walked it. Skyrim’s climate is remarkably steady yet varied, some areas buried in thick snow year around, while others like the Reach and the Rift may see the occasional shower of white but it almost never sticks around long enough for any Calvin & Hobbes shenanigans. Could such differences in climate over a distance of a few hundred miles come naturally, or would this world turn a meteorologist into a crazed lunatic screaming and raving about magical fuckery in the town square? I don’t know, and I don’t care. There is already more than enough fuckery going around here to occupy my mind, thank you very much.

A barrow lies right next to the settlement, a moss-covered dome of venerable stone that in another few hundred years’ time might become indistinguishable from a natural rise in the ground, like so many other tumuli all over my old world. I remember this one, some mage pretending to be a ghost to keep people away during his research, or perhaps his quest for lost treasure, I can’t recall. But I’m far more concerned with the scorched ruins of a house on the other side of the river. The dwelling of the beggar Narfi. The poor soul I have come to kill.

Would I have gone for it if the insidious voice in the back of my mind didn’t whisper sweet solace, seducing me with the thought I will only offer him comfort, an end to his long suffering? I paid a dear price for the benefits the Dark Brotherhood offers, but how much more can I pay in membership dues and still say in honesty I am acting in the interest of the greater good?

Getting the poor man to tell his tale is easy, though his speech is confused, irregular and hurried, at times speaking a whole string of words as if it were but one. His tattered clothes and scraggy black whiskers tell more about his life than his words ever need to. Nothing is on his mind but Reyda, Reyda, Reyda, the sister who went to collect herbs and never came back.

The innkeep Wilhelm gives me what else I need to know—or, more accurately, a proper excuse for what I knew already before we ever set foot here. I grab Ciara and make for the island Reyda frequented while Ralof, Uthgerd and Farkas remain behind, collecting information about the path to High Hrothgar while also showing a keen interest in the Shroud Hearth Barrow’s supposed haunting. Perhaps we might be doing that one later today, it is still early in the afternoon but the grueling path towards the cloud-piercing summit is best started on a fresh day.

We give the small island a cursory search I know to be futile while taking some time to collect the unusually dense array of alchemical ingredients. By now I had opportunity to learn how to recognize and store them. No longer am I reliant on the gaming convenience of their name popping up in my field of vision to then be rewarded with an undecaying item at the stroke of a key. A steep hole wedged between ground and a house-sized rock leads no doubt to yet another dungeon I am loath to brave, especially since I know it not be be the place of Reyda’s remains. But Ciara is quite convinced this is where we will find our quarry, and her guess is more than reasonable based on what she knows. Wouldn’t these plentiful bleeding crowns and fly amanita sprouting in the dank mustiness of the cave be sure to attract someone out to collect ingredients? I can’t dispute her logic.

I command her to send her eagle familiar ahead while I sight down my crossbow to scan the deepening shadows ahead of us. This close to the surface no insurmountable challenge should await us. The successive scaling of enemy strength may be a gameplay feature, but at least here it should hold up; we’re still within easy sight of Ivarstead, a Dragon Priest can hardly lurk right in front of us.

It turns out just a pack of skeevers, well handled by the eagle alone. The cave terminates soon with a hole leading straight down where the light of my spell is reflected on the murky blackness well beneath us. I drop a rock and wait for the splash; about one and a half seconds. Some cursory tests have shown the gravity constant to at the very least be close to what I am familiar with, so that should make for perhaps ten meters from here to the bottom where without a doubt an ancient Nord ruin lies buried. The time-worn remains of a stone pillar to our right are a dead give-away.

“If she fell down here she is out of our reach without a rope,” I say. “And this poor sucker didn’t even make it that far.”

Does the corpse we found here even deserve to be called adventurer when his life was ended by mere skeevers? His left leg is broken with the shattered bone piercing out of his shin to raise the fabric of his pants into a gruesome tent. He seems to have slipped down the sudden drop at his back and taken all the force of his short fall on one foot. Just one random misstep and his life was forfeit.

He has nothing much on him, some coin, a decent enough ax worth selling, fur armour I wouldn’t trust to ever lose the scent of mold and onsetting decay. The book he had with him is even more a ruin than his skeever-ravaged body. The storm’s water washing down the entrance’s steep incline smudged the clean lines of the script into a dreary swampland.

We drag the body out, but don’t bury it; this close to Ivarstead it may well be someone the inhabitants know so it is courteous—and less strenuous of course—to give them a chance to retrieve and identify the man. At last I broach the idea of checking the waters surrounding the island for Reyda’s remains. I could have done it sooner, but the delay was fruitful enough. A bit of diving in the cool stream lets me discover her half-buried skeleton with a silver disk necklace around its neck. Quest successful.

The chill of the water only gets more intense as I return to land and all my joints jitter from the cold running through my body. On reflex, I wrap my arms tight around my chest, for all the good that might do. But, luckily, I didn’t come without a solution. I cast Flames with my right hand and let the blaze run over my body like a fan heater. I am immune to the effect of my own spell, but the water is not part of my body and it flees from the charge of the heat as surely as droplets dancing across the surface of a frying pan. Soon enough I am dry save for my undergarments—call me bashful, but I didn’t feel like skinny dipping with my young and female housecarl along—which I quickly exchange for a fresh pair before getting dressed again.

“Go ahead to the others Ciara. I think it is best I talk to Narfi alone.” If she commends me for the effort I went through to help a poor stranger I will call the whole thing off right now. But she just smiles and gives me a ‘yes my Thane’ along with a vague ‘thank you’.

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, my legs rooted in place. Once I have taken the first step I will not stop.

I fill my lungs to the brim, exhale again and start walking.

Narfi’s wails of agony at the somber news crash into me like a sledgehammer. I remain silent as he airs his grief, always talking about himself in the third person, Narfi never got to say goodbye, no no no, what has Narfi left to live for now. The choice will be his.

“Listen Narfi, if the pain is too much, if there is no more point after you held on for a year through pain and misery, hoping she would return…” I give him a small vial filled with distilled night and gently fold his open hand over it. “If you want your suffering to end and perhaps find Reyda again on the other side, drink this. Don’t wash it down, just take it all and go to sleep. By the time you wake up it will all be over. No more pain, just sweet release.”

I stumble back towards the tavern in a daze, my body operating on autopilot. The others think me exhausted from the time I spent in the cold water and I have no reason to dispute their erroneous assumption. We decide to investigate the supposed haunting of the barrow anyway; unlike them, I know the endeavour to be a short affair.

The actual burial chambers are well underground. A spiral staircase matching the circular mound leads us deep into the earth until the darkness beyond my Magelight swallows up the entrance, turning our group into a globe of dim life drifting through a sea of cold blackness. Dissonant drips accompany our every step, striking bright when hitting steel, striking hollow when impacting wood or stone. Some pools left by the preceding storm, water that crawls its way through centuries-eaten cavities left in the fangs covering the hidden barrow’s throat. Soon, another light ahead shows us the bottom of the stairwell and the corridor ahead lit by coal-fed braziers. Leathery corpses standing in their alcoves with the rigidity of the Queen’s Guard outside Buckingham Palace rather understandably make Ralof and Uthgerd think of our previous experience with draugr, but there is no spark of unlife animating these bodies. Just for appearance’s sake I loose a silver bolt into the first one’s chest, to no effect.

My compan… party members are clearly disturbed by what seems to be their second ghostly encounter in quick succession, a translucent shade warning us to leave this place from behind the security of an iron lattice gate without any readily accessible opening mechanism. The ‘ghost’ departs and we continue cautiously after opening the path with a simple trial and error lever puzzle, then go past a number of traps and other draugr bodies and skeletons likewise inanimate. Soon we come face to face with the dragging voice again, once more warning us to leave his tomb, a Firebolt ready to be thrown flickering on his hand. We pull back and he gives chase… and then the supposed ghost tumbles to the ground with an all too mortal cry of pain. The poor fool charged right into my field of caltrops. His spell dissipates when he hits the floor, and his life does the same shortly after. Upon his death the spell-wrought spectral form explodes outward in a burst of magical energy and leaves the entirely mundane body of a male Dunmer behind.

“How did you know?” Uthgerd asks as she wipes her blade.

“Did you see any draugr that were more than dead flesh?”

She frowns, unsure where I am going with this. “No, why?”

“Then who pray tell keeps lighting these braziers? Surely not a disembodied spirit.”

Her hands stop cold in their ministrations of the bloodied sword. “Molag Bal fuck me sideways, I never noticed. I was completely taken in by his ruse.”

The accessible areas of the barrow are sparse and so is the loot; a few potions—including the ones he used for his ghost-like shape—minor gems both common and of the soul-storing kind, a journal and a pair of good gauntlets: sturdy black leather running up to the elbow, the outside of the forearm protected by a steel and orichalcum alloy bracer that also covers the back of the hand and terminates in a trio of one inch spikes. It rather has a feel of Wolverine’s claws after he got them thoroughly trimmed during a manicure. Farkas, Uthgerd and myself are already well equipped in handgear, and the fit is too loose on Ciara, so Ralof ends up taking the gauntlets to no objection.

The last unexplored door leads us to a familiar sight, and even Farkas and Ciara recognize it from from the tale told in Jorrvaskr. The raucous crowd fell to a hushed whisper at this part of the story, breathless listeners hanging on every word from our lips. Farkas brushes over the three indentations on the central ring with the gentle touch of someone trying to pluck a dandelion without disturbing a single stalk of its white seeds. “So this one is opened with the claw as well?”

“Yes, though a different one,” I say as I skim through the journal’s script that seems to become more hurried with each entry, the neat lines at the start of the booklet devolving into a sharp upward arc. “Sapphire, looks like. The people of Ivarstead might have it, but by the time he realized it’s not here he could no longer leave.” I don’t reveal the disturbing reason for his inability to depart. The last few entries speak of a haunted man who lost himself to a compulsive millstone grinding away his sanity and self. ‘I'm... who am I? My head is becoming clouded, I can't remember anything. I have to read my journal to remember my purpose. Am I a part of this tomb? Am I meant to guard it? What's becoming of me?’

An icy hand plays its eerie song on the vertebrae of my spine. This place, it was turning him into a draugr. The ancient dragon cult was prospicient enough to ensure that the number of their guardians will not run dry with the passing of time. All these tombs, they might be able to claim a hapless fool who thinks them free real estate.

I might want to have a real thorough talk with Astrid. The Brotherhood Sanctuary at least in part makes use of one such ancient Nord site, though the main area seems a natural cave.

Ciara shines a torch on one of the ornate stone carvings lining the corridor, each a rectangular image as wide as two men are tall. “What are these? It looks like these robed figures are bringing tribute to the one in the center.”

I take a closer look. They all have the same design: in the middle, a large figure in frontal view, each with an animal motif. A bearded man with two large feathers under his outstretched hands, and to the sides of his head a pair of owls flying outward. A scantily clad woman with an elaborate head-dress, surrounded by moths. Another bearded man, holding a staff in each hand with a bear’s skull on top. And each time, to their left and right, a group of smaller robed men and women approach, their shoulders lifting a long object with indistinct contents. From the context, it indeed seems to be offerings or sacrifice brought before these beings. “These animals, they match what we saw in Bleak Falls. Bear, moth and owl, though we also saw snake, falcon and dolphin. And here on this door we also see a wolf. These animals have a deeper meaning. Did the ancient Nords perhaps associate an animal with each of the Divines?”

“It might well be,” Farkas says. “The raven of the Skyforge predates the Companions, and some tales claim it is even older than the Elves who feared its image. It holds magic old as the world itself, a remnant of the gods before man took his first breath.”

“Either way, we’re not getting it open now,” Uthgerd cuts in. “It might be worth checking out if we can indeed secure this Sapphire Claw, but I would save that for after our return from High Hrothgar. These ruins have waited long enough, they can wait a while longer. And if another like Ingmorn is beyond this gate I am not going to climb a mountain after fighting him.”

Well, she is right enough. We return to the tavern to spend the night, the sun since vanished behind the distant horizon by the time we reclaim the surface. At the news of ending the barrow’s ‘haunting’ Wilhelm rewards us with, surprise of surprises, the Sapphire Claw; straightforward, simple, and for once a fetch quest that doesn’t require you to traipse hundreds of miles back and forth. I can well live with that.

When we get ready to depart the next morning, I find the beggar Narfi dead and cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy folks! In the last weeks I have spent a good amount of time looking into the theory of fiction writing instead of, well, just doing what feels right. I think the prose so far holds up well enough but there’s always room for improvement and writing is certainly a learning-by-doing craft. I made another revision of most previous chapters; nothing major you need to worry about, just some issues I noticed with my writing habits. Spurning the humble period with too many clauses connected by commas, too little variance in sentence structure, stuff like that. No typos to speak of, my betareader is far too diligent for that. Though there _was_ a slightly embarrassing slip-up in the previous chapter with Farengar addressing Balgruuf as ‘my Thane’ instead of ‘my Jarl’. Oopsie.
> 
> Well, none of you called me out on it, so presumably your eyes skipped over it just like mine did in all my previous read-throughs :P


	11. 14000 Steps

My hands scoop up a clump of snow and compress it into a ball, the white powder groaning and creaking under the pressure.

Uthgerd gives me a cautioning glare. “If that hits me there will be trouble.”

“You’re no fun Uthgerd.” I toss the juvenile ordnance a few inches into the air and let it fall back down into my palm. “I’m sure there’s still a little girl inside of you who right now would like nothing more than to have a snowball fight, or maybe build a fort.” Her narrowed eyes evidently do not agree. “Fine, fine. It’s not what I had in mind anyway. Look.”

I hold out my hand and slowly unfold my fingers. The snowball comes to float a few inches in front of it, perfectly steady. With a thought I start rotating it clockwise, then come to a stop, turning the held object up and down, left and right. Ralof keeps watch, his eyes alight with curiosity. “So you finally got that one down? Took you longer than the other tomes I think.”

“Yeah, this one’s a bit more advanced. And not without issue.” I turn to the left, where our corkscrew path winding around the white mountain falls away into a precarious drop. A short mental push, and the snowball is launched into the distance where the white flecks tumbling through the air to join their fallen brethren quickly obscure it behind their veil. Decent enough velocity, but this quick, first test has already eaten through my magical reserves with a ravenous hunger that almost shocked me into dropping my spell right away. The magicka drain of Telekinesis is downright ridiculous. Such a seemingly simple task, and yet evoking elements out of nothing or knitting together a cut to the bone feels like a Happy Meal compared to the five course feast of just holding up a little snowball for a short while.

I have to keep practicing every chance I get if I want to make efficient use of this spell. I’m already close to ‘mastering’ Flames and Magelight; I can cast them at a moment’s notice and at a far lesser cost than when I had to put considerable concentration into directing the flow of my internal magicka to turn it outward and transform the raw power into the desired effect. In other words, what in the games were the traits to halve the magicka cost of spells of a certain school and level. But it seems rather tied to a specific spell here; I can tell my mastery of Magelight and Oakflesh is not on the same level. The latter seems a bit behind, even though out of the two I have been training it more. I seem to be progressing faster on the spells with an external effect, where I expel magicka and transform it into the desired shape, than internal spells where I affect my own body. It may be an individual thing, not universal; I haven’t met an educated mage since I have come to notice the discrepancy.

“Should we try the barrow once we get back?” Farkas asks.

“It may be worthwhile.” Ralof bites his lower lip and with a shake throws off the snow accumulated on his cloak. “Last time was quite rewarding, though far from easy. We were a skeever’s fart from dying in the final chamber.”

“We’re stronger now, and better equipped,” Uthgerd says. “If I had a blade equal to Ingmorn’s I would have given him a better fight. He’d still overpower me, but we’re five now, including a healer. And you know the Voice too.”

“Hardly.” The Dragonborn shakes his head. “He tossed you away like a crumpled up piece of paper. You saw what I can do, it’s nowhere close to that.” Ah, the bewildering ideas born out of alcohol. The loony crowd had him play some sort of bowling while using his Voice. It was quite fun, to be honest.

“There may also be another thing like the wall that whispered the knowledge of the Shout into your mind,” I say. “Farengar remembered at least one mention of these he had come across, and it would seem these old Nord ruins are the right place to look.” Which one will it be in Shroud Hearth Barrow? Ice Form and Slow Time are two options I’d be quite happy about.

“Hm… what are these things called?”

I can’t help myself. “Wall of Text.” I pull my hood lower into my face both to hide my smirk and stop the falling snow from hitting my skin. Oscar Wilde’s succinct ‘I can resist everything but temptation’ proves to be all too true.

“I would assume these Walls of Text would be very worthwhile in our quest.” He frowns and gives me a weird look. “What?”

“Nothing.” I couldn’t hold back a snort. At least I get to have some fun in all this.

Climbing a wind-haunted winter hellscape is not what I expected to be an enjoyable experience, but to be honest it’s not all that bad. There is a clear path so it is more hiking than climbing, the snowfall lets up after a few hours and the cool mountain air gives my sinuses a pleasing tickle as I take it in with a long, steady breath. There are a few stumbles and falls with none of us equipped with footwear made for this kind of activity, but nothing bad. Ciara keeps groaning whenever a segment of the Seven Thousand Steps leads downward because sure enough we will have to go up again. “Not fond of climbing Ciara?”

“I’ll manage my Thane,” she says in a sullen voice. “I’m not as used to the cold as you Nords. My apologies in advance my Thane, I will try to suppress my grumpiness while I await our return to a warm tavern fire.”

Not a Nord, though of course my true ethnicity would mean nothing to them. But I have always been better than most with cold weather. Ah, the exasperated cries of my female classmates whenever I opened the windows when it was ten degrees Celsius outside because I’m a stickler for fresh air. I could handle it with a T-shirt, why couldn’t they with more plentiful clothing? “That’s quite alright. No need to always be grim and proper while we are among friends.”

The view from this high up must be beatific if not for the mist turning the empty distance into an indistinct, milky white. Gray and white, white and gray. Our fluttering cloaks are splashes of random colour on an empty canvas, blue on Ralof, yellow on Ciara—she wanted to maintain that tie to her adopted home of Whiterun and I saw no reason to deny her—umber on Farkas with the black silhouette of a wolf’s head in the center, light gray on Uthgerd and a darker one on me. Turn Uthgerd’s garment a bright pink and we may as well be the Power Rangers. In the one I watched as a kid—whichever one of the dozens of different shows that was—I liked the white Power Ranger best. White Power Ranger. How… unfortunate a description.

A ponderous thud interrupts my idle musings. Some one hundred feet ahead a hulk of raw muscle and white fur that blends all too well into the pallor of the landscape has jumped off a ledge to block our path. The knuckles of its apish arms drag over the ground, its gibbous posture belying the true size of the beast come unfurled. The hunched over figure of the frost troll has no neck to speak of. Its stocky chest seamlessly blends into a head that has its brutish features broken up by the shimmering onyx of three eyes, the last one in the center of its forehead. It roars out an animalistic challenge, right foot pounding the snow into the unseen ground beneath.

Ralof gives me a sideways glance. “Fire flasks again?”

“You know it.” The sealed container is already hovering in front of my open palm. Out here, I am free to use the cheaper petroleum mixtures.

“… I almost feel sorry for the guy.”

“I don’t.” A quick burst of flame ignites the soaked piece of cloth wrapped around the Molotov, then the projectile takes flight propelled by a telekinetic push. Weep, Isaac Newton; it’s not the force that is fixed, but the speed, no matter the mass of the lifted object. A fact I am sure to abuse vigorously.

White fur is polluted into blackened clumps that disgorge noxious fumes from their fire and if the troll is sentient enough to feel regret it certainly does so now. It bellyflops into the snow to extinguish the clinging flames, but the action is in vain; the slick oil still holds fast to its once pristine coat and my second hit reignites it, along with spreading further burning liquid over shoulder and face. With a desperate howl the troll rips into its own skin, to no avail, just as the uneven pair of throwing ax and arrow burrow into its skin. My task done I switch to crossbow as well. Farkas and Uthgerd have moved to flank the troll while the shielded Ralof covers the center. They keep the tortured creature in their midst, darting in for a strike when it looks the opposite way, then immediately step back. Ciaragane’s spectral eagle harries the beast’s back, but while birds of prey have more strength than most people expect it is not quite enough for the claws to find purchase in a troll’s sturdy hide. Skyforge steel and ebony however fare much better, and one of Uthgerd’s strikes cuts deep enough for the dire ax to cleave through flesh and bone alike. The troll falls forward and braces on its knuckles to avoid faceplanting completely. A claw-tipped hand reaches back and bends the lower leg still hanging on a strip of flesh back into proper alignment. The parted hide begins to knit back together almost immediately. A troll’s regeneration is nothing to scoff at. Whichever story first came up with the idea that trolls have a healing factor? The trope seems almost universal in post-Tolkien fantasy.

“Fus!” Nothing happens. Ralof fills up his lungs and tries again with more focus. “ _Fus_!” A ripple of intangible pressure surges through the air into the troll. Standing on a single good leg its balance is precarious enough for the Shout to throw it on its back. The meaty impact sends a spray of white dust outward high enough to for a moment turn the melee fighters surrounding the downed troll into vague outlines. Farkas takes advantage of the troll’s momentary helplessness and slashes at a leg that once again hangs loose with no bone supporting it. Skyforge steel finishes the job ebony had begun and the severed limb falls away to stain white snow red. The fight is all but over now. The troll is no longer able to close the distance and the wounds coming from all directions pile up far faster than it can heal. Its struggles cease and Uthgerd beheads the monster with two clean strokes.

So she found the neck after all.

“That was the easiest fight against a troll I have ever seen,” Farkas says as he scoops up a handful of snow to wipe his bloodied blade.

“How does it usually go?” I put the crossbow back on my back and unsheath a steel dagger. Troll fat a-plenty to mix up more Molotov cocktails. Yes please.

“You hit them hard and fast without pause,” Uthgerd explains. “You’ll take some painful hits, but if you let up they can recover from pretty much everything. Even a severed limb can grow back, though that at least will take a couple of hours.”

“Half a dozen decent archers can do it.” Ciara approaches the dead troll, but not to examine it as I first thought. No, she huddles close and holds her hands over the still burning hide to breathe some fresh life into numb fingers. “It’s less risky, but if it’s just two or three it won’t be enough to overcome the regeneration.”

Well, scratch killing a troll off the bucket list. No further violent interruptions delay our journey and High Hrothgar stands before us under the midday sun of the third day. The final set of stairs splits around a tower before coming to the twin entrance gates of the summit’s monastery. The flat-roofed structure is all hard lines with no hint of a curve to be found in its buttresses and oblong windows. White frost has nested in all the crevices between the slabs of dark stone that make up High Hrothgar’s body, an ever-present pattern of veins running through the entire edifice.

“Perhaps it was worth it after all.” I turn back to see Ciaragane gazing into the endless distance below. Time seems frozen while taking in the view of sprawling fields and forests and rivers and settlements arrayed below us in an unmoving tapestry. It must be even prettier but a week or two earlier, when harvest has not yet reduced golden fields to an empty brown amongst the rich hues of autumn. “Everything seems so small from up here, it’s so different from when Dragonsreach looms above you…”

She jolts when I put a hand on her shoulder; she was completely lost in her reverie. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Let’s take a few more moments.”

We do not end up delivering supplies. Klimmek had done so himself but a few days prior. Every few weeks, he brings fresh produce up to High Hrothgar while once per year a larger delivery of non-perishable food is made: wheat, cured meat, that sort of thing. They also have a number of chickens for fresh eggs and occasional meat. I wonder which one of the Graybeards maintains the coop. It doesn’t mesh all that well with my image of these silent, dignified hermits.

We enter a wide hall that might qualify as chill if not for the context of the snowclad mountain from which we came. The lack of décor is striking, only cold dark stone in every direction. The addition of two dichromatic tapestries seems almost reluctant. A short flight of stairs, these presumably no longer part of the Seven Thousand Steps, lead into the main parts of High Hrothgar after the spacious antechamber. The man approaching us must be Arngeir, the only one of the Graybeards who speaks. Gloomy robes hide all but a time-worn face with a faded beard knotted at the chin. His wide arms clasp each other in front of his chest, reaching into each other’s wide sleeves to obscure even this bit of skin. “So… a Dragonborn appears, in this moment in the turning of the age.” The resonance of his voice strikes from all directions at once in full Dolby Surround and I doubt it is just due to the acoustics of the room.

By unconscious decision we have entered with Ralof in the center, Ciara and me to his left, Uthgerd and Farkas to the right. Arngeir’s gaze is focused on Ralof and whether due to our positioning or some other means, he knows which one of us is the Dragonborn. “Yes… yes. We heard your call after Whiterun was attacked, and came to answer.”

“We will see if you truly have the gift. Show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste your voice.”

Ralof hesitates. “Um… are you sure?” A grave nod answers him and after collecting himself he breathes in deep, then does as bidden. “ _Fus_!”

Arngeir staggers back, but despite the seeming frailness of his body he remains on his feet. Uh… how did he know the word Ralof learned was part of Unrelenting Force? This would have gone very differently with fire or frost breath. “Very well. You are indeed the one whose coming was foretold. I am Master Arngeir, speaker of the Graybeards. Follow me. The rest of you will have to remain here, our words are but for the Dragonborn to hear. My brothers will bring out some food and drink for you while you wait. Please do not try to talk to them, they are bound to silence for mere men can not withstand the power of their Voice.”

We are left alone. The lessons of the Graybeards run through the entire rest of the day and we spend the night between the comforting warmth of a pair of braziers before whiling away a few more listless hours the next morning. “Hey, did you know that the ancestors of the Khajiit, Argonians and Orcs were native to the entire continent of Tamriel before the Aldmeri displaced them into remote areas like jungles and marshes? The text almost makes it sound like these beastfolk are a common ancestor of all three.”

“Did _you_ know that there are far more exciting card and dice games with four players instead of three?” Say that again Uthgerd and I will teach you Skat just so you can see how wrong you are. Even if I have to cut out and draw the 32 card deck myself.

Farkas looks up. “Do you think that’s true Ragnar?”

“Well, one shouldn’t believe everything they find written in a book…” The tome Before the Ages of Man I had found on the pretend ghost seems credible enough overall, though this copy suffers from a high density of spelling errors courtesy of a careless scribe. “But since the Argonians are most certainly adapted to the swampland of Black Marsh it doesn’t seem all that unlikely their more spread out ancestors had a different appearance.” The time seems rather short for such sizable differences between the races, but there may have been interbreeding with other local hominids or some magical and divine intervention to laugh in the face of evolution.

Ralof returns at last and the collective sigh of relief could match the watchers of a football game after the offside flag is raised. He gives us a cheeky grin. “Missed me?”

“You have no idea. We were almost holding out for another troll to burst in here.” Well, I wouldn’t go as far as Farkas here, but I too am fond of playful exaggeration. “How did it go?”

“Good, I think. They taught me a lot about the history and the power of the Voice. I think you noticed Ingmorn and the dragon used three syllables on their Shouts?” A series of nods answers him. “These Shouts are all made up of three words. They are like an organized way to channel and teach the raw power of the Voice. Most of the Graybeards cannot speak without affecting the world around them. It is a quite intimidating idea to be honest, that these dragons and now I too can bend the world to our will just by speaking our desire.” 

“That one draugr in Bleak Falls, I think it used the same one you know. Only one word too,” Uthgerd says.

“Yes, true. It gets more powerful with each word you add. That one is called Unrelenting Force, and they have shown me the second word. Another one called Whirlwind Sprint too. A short burst of inhuman speed to propel you forward. Oh, and I told them about Shroud Hearth Barrow. They reached out and confirmed there is indeed a Wall of Text hidden in its depths. And after that they want me to retrieve an artifact from a place called Ustengrav north of Morthal to prove I am the one the legends speak of.”

“Well, sounds fruitful enough to me.” Farkas stands up and shakes his legs one after the other to cast out the pins and needles of inactivity. “Arngeir really is the only one who can talk? How do they not die of boredom.”

Ralof, who didn’t have to experience the tedium of close to a day in a doctor’s waiting room, just shrugs. “Beats me. Perhaps their leader Paarthurnax has mastered the Voice well enough to suppress its effects too. They said I wasn’t ready to meet him.”

My head snaps up in breathless shock. They actually reveal that name here? “Ralof, can you say that name again?”

“Paarthurnax. Why?” Ralof’s lips are slightly parted, exposing the white beneath. “Talos protect me, I’d say you look as if you had seen a ghost, but even that had less of an effect on you than this, Reinhardson!”

I don’t have long to decide. Go or no go.

The hell with it. Accelerate. “Ralof… Paarthurnax is the name of a dragon.”

The sky could come crashing down on us and not dispel the shocked silence of the people around me. “Are… are you sure?”

“Yes Ralof. I am absolutely sure.”

The smoothness of his agape stare cracks and shatters, harsh lines running through a face with unquenched rage burning in narrowed eyes. “Follow me.” He turns around, up the stairs towards the door leading into the forbidden sanctum of the Graybeards.

Farkas takes a hesitant step. “Ralof, we are not allowed…”

“I don’t care!”

The double door is thrown wide by Ralof’s fury, metal turning on its hinges until the mighty gate crashes into the stone wall with a clap to arouse the dead. Still numb with shock our group follows the Dragonborn’s ceaseless advance to enter what was forbidden to us. Arngeir begins to speak after recovering from his surprise, but Ralof barrels right over him with the unstoppable power of a freight train. “Where is Paarthurnax!”

The very air shakes in the face of his anger. Arngeir keeps looking at him for some tense moments, then lowers his head in resignation. “I see I have spoken too much.”

“He’s a _dragon_!”

“Yes. He’s the one who taught Man the way of the Voice. He sought a different path, not ruled by the draconic instinct to seek ever greater power and trample those beneath him. It was he who taught the Nords of old how they might sap the unbound might of Alduin, though they were unable to kill Akatosh’s firstborn and but banished him to buy time for the world to live.” Arngeir looks at each of us in turn. “Perhaps our people’s memory would have been kinder to dragonkind if Paarthurnax had let his involvement be known. I’m sorry, Dragonborn, but you still needed to learn before we could show you the truth. We had to know you were able to put trust into our master.”

“I might well trust him, if what you speak is true. However, I am now far less certain about trusting _you_.”

The Graybeard sighs and takes a seat on a stone dais. “How did you find out?”

Ralof points a thumb at me. “Reinhardson here could tell from the name.”

Arngeir looks up. “You learned Dovahzul?”

“No, but I know enough to recognize it when I see or hear it. It has a clear predilection for drawn out vowels. Mostly a, like the common articles faal and aan or deinmaar, guardian. I too and more rarely o. Dovahkiin obviously, and joor, mortal.” It feels unspeakably good to know I could have figured this one out without cheating; for once, I am not reliant on my advance knowledge. A comprehensive dictionary in human hands seems not to exist, but Farengar’s library had at least some bits and pieces when I came to show him my transcription of the Word Wall in Bleak Falls. “Also, the -ax sound with a soft a is absent in our language and in Dovahzul I know at least of munax, cruel. I would assume the names for the diseases of ataxia and chanthrax blight were originally loanwords from the language of dragons.”

Arngeir might as well be trying to eat a tangerine in one bite the way he stares at me. He closes his mouth and lets his eyes roam over the people behind me. I turn around. They all have a blisteringly smug look on their face. “We remain silent to not disturb the world with the power of our words. To think that what threw our designs out of joint was not the power with which we utter a word, but its understanding by another…” I raise a hand to cover my mouth. That is indeed hilarious. “What will you do now, Dragonborn?”

Ralof stares at the ground in quiet contemplation for some long seconds now his anger has run its course, then speaks with conviction. “I will go to Solitude and kill the dragon that has been sighted there. That is my fight and my destiny. If that won’t prove to you I am the one the legends speak of that’s your problem, not mine. Fetch that damn horn yourselves.”

Arngeir nods. “Very well. I regret our duplicity kept us from earning your trust. Please part with the assurance that we are still your allies and wish to help you on your way to fulfill your destiny, even if now you may refuse to be guided by our hand.”

“I understand.” Ralof inclines his head. “My people always held the Graybeards in high regard and I can see your reason for withholding your master’s nature. But this is my fight, as I have been told over and over again, so I will have to forge my own path.”

“Farewell, Dragonborn. I will hold the proof of your destiny fulfilled if you succeed at the task you set yourself. Return, and we shall impart you with our blessing and our final lesson.”

Take that, stupid fetch quests sending you back and forth through snow-topped mountain ranges! Poor Delphine, her design won’t succeed so easily.

Well, I never liked her all that much anyway.

We depart, and Ralof puts on a deep frown when he sees the prone shape of a snowman in swimming pose on the terrace outside, with a few raised triangles behind it. “Snow sharks?” 

“Hey man, even I grow tired of reading at some point.”

“Keep this up and I might lose all the prejudices I have about scholarly types.”

“You wound me Ralof!” I clutch at my heart in theatrical exaggeration. “And this just when said scholarship saved you from having to track down some pointless artifact that from the way you talked about it doesn’t even do anything useful.”

Farkas laughs. “He got you there friend.”

Our return trip is uneventful and, to little surprise, far less strenuous than the ascent. The surprise rather awaits once we arrive at Ivarstead. “Hjilga? What are you doing here?” Ralof wraps the uniformed woman in a gleeful hug, the two of them giggling like little schoolgirls. Once they separate I embrace her too, if a little less exuberant in our expression of joy.

“Jarl Ulfric sent me after he received your message. He figured I could make it in time for your return from the mountain.” Her gaze wanders back and forth between Ralof and me. “Seems you have been up to a lot since we parted. The Dragonborn, and a Thane of Whiterun, _and_ Companions the both of you? Perhaps I should have stuck around, I might be Archmage of the college by now.”

“I think you’d better leave that one to Reinhardson… perhaps he’d trade you Thanehood instead?”

“Tempting, to be sure…” I wonder whether that would have been an actual option if I pursued the College of Winterhold questline. Putting the Archmage hat on a complete newcomer just because he ended up saving your bacon? There are not one but two Russian officers who prevented nuclear war on separate occasions, and nobody made _them_ president. “So how have you been, ever come to regret not taking one of our boots when offered?”

Her face scrunches up into a pained grimace. “Dibella have mercy, I should have just taken it instead of trying to tough it out! Pride be damned, you had a far shorter and less rocky path ahead of you.”

Ralof chuckles. “So, what’s the word from Jarl Ulfric?”

“You know how he is. He trusts in the legends. If they demanded him to sacrifice an eye he’d just ask whether left or right.” Ulfric at the well of Mimir? Interesting image. “He will not interfere while you seek your destiny unless you ask him to, and you are freed from your oath to fight in his war while you fight your own. Afterwards, only time will tell. But right now your task may require you to enter territory controlled by the Imperials, and the colour of your cloak should not prevent you from saving all of us.”

“That… is appreciated.” I can’t agree more. Ulfric could so easily have turned Ralof into a weapon of war to suit his own ambitions. “Please tell Jarl Ulfric that it was an honour to serve under his banner, and no matter what the path ahead of me brings, I will always seek the best for the people of Skyrim, to see them free of oppression and persecution. The name of Talos shall not go quietly into the night.” Uh… Independence Day? I think I quoted that part once during our travels. Seems it left an impression.

“Good.” Her voice lowers; I can still hear her, but the rest of our group standing a few paces back likely can’t. “Of course, if there are multiple dragon sightings, it might be good to carefully consider which threatened city to offer reprieve first, right?” Ralof gives her a tense nod, the line of his lips thin enough to cut. “Now with business out of the way, I’m sure you two have a lot of tales to tell. Up for a drink?”

“Actually, we wanted to explore the barrow here later today after a bit of a break, an old Nord ruin is down there like the one where my power was revealed. So a cup or two, but no more. Have to stay sharp.”

How responsible of you Ralof. No dungeon-delving under the influence, it only gets you killed. Granted, you won’t run into a tree, but perhaps a tree—with a big ax head attached in these swinging blade traps—will run into you.

The gate opens to the clawed key as sure as last time. If the air was stale and thick before, it only becomes worse now. Far underground, with little natural circulation and the light from torches, braziers and candles burning for millennia it is of little surprise. This time Uthgerd takes keen notice. “That mage didn’t get this far, so I guess we’ll assume the bodies from here on out are animate?”

“I already loaded silver.” Should have gotten some arrows for Ciara as well, but time was too short. We will have to manage as is.

A group of sarcophagi leave us little doubt of what might be inside. The draugr don’t fare well against our combined strength; our numbers may be equal if one discounts the summoned eagle, but we gang up on them two to one before they are able to unify their split up force. The combination of Ralof’s Shout and the spectral familiar distracting the most distant draugr ensures we are always engaging at a numerical advantage. Defeat in detail. Only one stronger draugr with a frost spell causes some inconvenience, but said inconvenience in the end boils down to nothing more than draining some of Ciara’s magicka when she has to use a healing spell on Farkas.

A pedestal on the left-hand dais displays a spell tome. Oakflesh. How disappointing. Well, I guess Ciara can make use of it, but I already gave her more reading material than a literature course. The sturdy mace of a dull brass goes to her as well—Dwarven metal. A flanged mace, the head splitting into four ridges. A design that was developed to counter increasingly sturdy armour on the medieval battlefield. Moving on, we come to a spiral staircase leading back up with one door at the midpoint and another at the top. The upper one is locked and my rather modest autodidactic skill at burglary is not enough to coerce this obstacle into granting us passage. “Sorry, no luck here. Gonna need the old barbarian’s skeleton key.”

Farkas frowns. “What is the barbarian’s skeleton key?”

Uthgerd steps forward, ebony ax at the ready. The door is solid iron, but the area of the lock by necessity has a hollow. A couple of strikes, and enough of the locking mechanism is exposed to throw open the barrier to a large chest in a tiny chamber. Locked again. Paranoid much? At least it isn’t trapped.

The same can’t be said for the rest of the dungeon. We go past skeletons and draugr without too much trouble. This barrow seems much smaller than Bleak Falls and we never encounter its undead guardians in sufficient density to overwhelm us. Even a stronger draugr, bald above its long beard, that Shouts Uthgerd’s sword out of her grasp falls without drawing blood from us; Ralof forces it back with the power of his own Thu’um to give Uthgerd a chance to disengage, I hit it with a Telekinesis-launched Molotov and then we just retreat past a prior door we hold shut while waiting for the wight to succumb to the fire consuming its haggard flesh. The traps, on the other hand, prove far more troublesome this time. Swinging ax blades, battering ram, spike grate, poison darts; we are just missing a rolling boulder to make this an obstacle course fit for Indiana Jones. We progress with slow and careful steps, and the only trigger we end up missing is the pressure plate for the poison darts. The small puncture wounds they strike in Farkas are healed easily enough, but we have nothing for the poison itself and its effects leave the senior Companion pale and weakened.

I might owe Farkas an apology for making the Cure Poison tome a low priority in my housecarl’s magical studies. I bid her to learn Soultrap first, for filling up soulgems makes a profitable side business during our dungeon delving. The draugr are a rich source, though she had to take several of my accumulated magicka potions to handle both soultrapping and healing while keeping her familiar active. Even with the extra magicka from the hood I found way back in Helgen’s jail cells—I only wear it during travel for spell practice, when expecting combat I switch it out for the Dark Brotherhood’s cowl to increase my ranged potential and protection—the combined strain was too much.

Farkas meanwhile proves rather stubborn in brushing off our concern. “I feel a little queasy, but I’m still good on my legs. Trust me, I can keep going.”

“Want to switch to a bow for a while?” Ralof suggests. “Uthgerd and I can handle the front, most times the quarters are too close for three people anyway.”

Farkas nods. “Alright. Perhaps it will wear off after a while.”

He is granted some time to recover when we come to a larger room with one of the turning pillar puzzles where you have to rotate each until they display the right animal. At least the air is getting a little less stale with the shallow stream at the bottom of a draw-bridge we have to lower. This one is a bit more elaborate than most other puzzles I remember; standing on a pressure plate sends four huge wheels on the walls into rotation with the harsh noise of grinding stone, then you have to wait for the small gap in each wheel to reveal the symbol beyond. “Alright Ciara, on your side it is snake next to the door, dolphin on the other. Ralof, falcon next to the door, dolphin on the other as well.”

“Isn’t this rather a whale, my Thane?” Ciara calls out. “No fin on the back.”

Now I feel stupid. For years I called that symbol dolphin. Please don’t tell my biologist friends. “Right… whale. Sorry about that.” Either way, it works and we are able to progress to more draugr and, who would have guessed it…

They all stare at a bar of solid gold displayed on a pedestal cut from black stone. “It’s trapped, isn’t it.”

“What gave it away, Uthgerd?” Ralof asks. “They trapped every single corridor. To be honest I’m surprised they had this much gold left after paying their engineers.”

“Ahem.” I wave for them to step back. Once everyone is at a safe distance I raise my hand and telekinetically pull the gold ingot into my grasp. Sure enough, flames shoot down from the ceiling to punish the imaginary thief standing next to the pedestal.

I already love this spell.

Truth to be told, the high density of traps makes it _less_ likely for one of them to hit us. We mistrust every single step forward, constantly check the ceiling for swinging devices, the walls for gaps or murder holes where blades or projectiles might spring from. If the ancient Nords had played Baldur’s Gate they’d know the traps that will compel you to quickload are the ones that appear after a long stretch without issue.

We come to enter a large hall that without a doubt is the boss room. Water streaming in from holes far up on the walls accumulates into a clear pool at the bottom. A narrow stone walkway with a pair of black sarcophagi on either side forming an honour guard leads up to a three-tiered platform where rounded pillars jut up to support the high ceiling. And more sarcophagi there, of course. Another two are on smaller platforms rising up out of the water to our left and right, with no discernable way to get up there. Inconvenient.

Most of the room’s illumination comes from suspended braziers hanging high above us. Their glow gives the ceiling and upper parts of the walls a yellow tint while the rest of the room remains a cool gray lit by diffused light. The unease of the others is palpable. They too can sense this will be the final and greatest challenge for us to overcome here.

Sure as sunrise, the lids start to climb above the horizon of their coffins. I take aim at the left-hand platform, where I’m certain an archer will emerge, only to lower my crossbow when I see bare bones instead of a draugr emerge. Bolts and arrows against a skeleton are a chancy proposition to say the least. “Ciara, eagle to the archer up on the left!”

It arrives in time to prevent any arrows striking at us while Ralof’s Thu’um blows the other one off its platform. The most immediate threat handled, we focus on the front where skeletons and draugr equipped for melee come bearing down on us. Molotovs fly, each of us equipped with at least one, and I ignite the lot of them while my three fellow Companions make quick work of the first two skeletons. But we’re now in serious danger of getting tackled by ablaze draugr and Ralof can’t throw them back anymore after he already had to use his Voice. Why did I never measure his ‘cooldown’? Stupid.

My Telekinesis picks up the first draugr felled by Uthgerd and sends it barrelling into the throng pushing down the walkway. Only two of them fall, one of them into the water at the side where the flames enveloping its body are extinguished with a sharp hiss. They are standing close enough together to brace each other against the impact, but every little bit of delay and disorder counts. Ralof, Farkas and Uthgerd keep hacking away valiantly at the avalanche of dead flesh while Ciara and I direct our fire at the second tier of the platform where further archers have risen, these ones draugr. One by one, the undead horde is whittled down—it’s probably less than twenty in all, but perspective becomes somewhat tilted when the blue glare shining from the eye sockets of moaning zombies forms string lights right in front of you. They either have to push through a choke point or take the sluggish path through the water while also yielding the high ground advantage to us.

The leader of the draugr is the last one to appear from his burial place at the very top of the rising structure ahead of us. The shimmer of enchantment around its long ax leaves no doubt about that. Like all draugr weapons it is tarnished by age and neglect. A dark layer of oxidized iron masks this ancient steel that still shines bright where one of the plentiful scratches and chips pierced through the cover of rust. “We’re standing too close, if he puts us down with a Thu’um we’re sitting ducks!”

“Let me handle it!” Ralof is an unceasing whirlwind. Block with the shield, push, and another uppercut-rebound combination sends a draugr down with its gray flesh cleft to the bone and beyond.

Ciara is all but out of the fight. She is entirely occupied with healing wounds as they crop up and the arrow piercing all the way through her thigh doesn’t help matters. At least the archers are finished, but I’m running low on silver bolts. But the number of our enemies is depleting just as fast and once the draugr lord reaches the walkway we are no longer numerically disadvantaged. “ _Fus… Ro Dah_!”

“ _Fus Ro_!”

The invisible Thu’ums clash in a harrowing thunderclap. The braziers above spill their coals into the frazzled water as the entire room goes through an arctic shiver, but most of the force coming our way is cancelled out and while we may stagger, we remain on our feet. We survived the draugr lord’s best shot and Ingmorn, he is not. Uthgerd finds herself able to compete against this one’s strength with two other warriors at her side while Ciara and I switch to mace and sword to occupy the last few draugr while the three of them gang up on their leader. Victory doesn’t evade our grasp for much longer.

I help Ciara with removing the arrow while the others check the room for further activity, to no avail. I decide to cut through the shaft before pulling it through; otherwise, I’d fear for some of the fletching to remain in the wound channel.

“Was this harder or easier than the first one my Thane?”

“Easier, definitely.” I pause. “Well, I guess if it was only three of us their numbers here would have been too overwhelming. You did good, kept everyone up and healthy and in the end you handled one of them even with your wound.”

We collect our spoils, which includes a greatsword in the same style as the Ax of Whiterun. It’s in an alcove in the wall quite unreachable without hazardous climbing. Or, you know, Telekinesis. This is actually one of the points designed for Whirlwind Sprint, but I can hardly point that out when everyone turns to me with a clear expression of ‘get on with it’.

We finally come to the jagged crescent of the Word Wall. This time, I am able to observe the moment Ralof absorbs its knowledge. Truth be told, the process is spectacularly unspectacular. No drumbeat, no distorted vision. A section of the clawmark letters alights, Ralof stumbles up to it, the light fades and that’s it. Nevertheless, I am giddy with anticipation. “Well Ralof, what’s this one?”

“Ov… peace. It calms animals, makes them docile. I suppose it might come in handy in the wilderness.”

I try not to let the disappointment come spelled out clear on my face. Unlike them I am well familiar what kind of Thu’ums are available, and armed with this knowledge I struggle to think of a Shout I would have been less excited about. I won’t change my mind even if this one ends up saving me when a bear comes charging down on me; after all, turning it into an unmoving icicle for a few seconds would save me just as well, on top of its benefits in any encounters not dealing with wildlife. We had to fight off a pack of wolves but once.

Well, it is what it is. We depart after collecting all valuables we can find, and I reseal the gate behind us. We warned the people of Ivarstead of the hidden danger posed by these ruins, but I am not content to let some bandits or a foolhardy kid hide out here to provide the barrow with a fresh supply of draugr. If I could I would just bring the whole place down on itself and be done with it.

Whiterun beckons once more. The central hub of this story, Rome by another name. It will be a long while before we can capture one of Alduin’s resurrected brethren in Dragonsreach, but perhaps my other designs will await their planter’s harvest soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another chapter done!
> 
> Yes, they do actually reveal the name Paarthurnax right at the start; surprised me too when replaying. After beginning the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller quest the dialogue option ‘There are only four of you?’ becomes available to which Arngeir answers "Five. Our leader, Paarthurnax, lives alone on the peak of the Throat of the World. When your Voice can open the path, you will know you are ready to speak to him."
> 
> Oh, and as for snow sharks https://www.gocomics.com/calvinandhobbes/2015/01/24/


End file.
